For him not a promise, a presence

For him not a promise, a presence
I don’t love you loudly. I love you steadily. The kind of love that doesn’t need to announce itself, because it shows up every single day.
I want your nervous system to rest when you’re with me. I want your shoulders to forget what they’ve neen carrying.
I want you to know that you don’t have to be composed, or strong, or impressive to be held.
Come to me when your voice cracks. When your eyes betray you. When the world feels too sharp and you don’t have language for the ache.
I will hold you until the storm inside you remembers how to soften. I am here, not conditionally, not temporarily, not only when it’s easy to love you.
I have feelings for you in your clarity and in your confusion. In your strength and in the moments you feel undone.
Nothing about that scares me. What we have is not fragile. It is not performative. It is not borrowed time. It is the kind of connection people recognize years later and say,
"That was real."
You are not just where I land, you are where I rest. You are my chosen place. My familiar quiet. My home.
I am not going anywhere. Not because I’m afraid to leave, but because I don’t want to. Staying is my decision. Over and over again.
I would not dream of another life that doesn’t include you sitting across from me, existing as you are, being witnessed fully.
When I say I would do anything for you, I mean the quiet things, the patience, the consistency, the choosing when it’s inconvenient and when it’s unromantic and when it matters most.
I like you now. I will like you as time changes us. As we age, as we soften, as we become.
Everything does not have to be perfect for us to be okay. We will be okay because we keep choosing each other. And I have no doubt that we will. I like you, not lightly, not briefly, but with everything
I am willing to grow into.