Letters in the dark- Witness

You arrive here like dusk slipping through the trees. Unhurried, quieter than you meant to be.

And I never say it aloud, but I wait for this.
Not because your fire isn’t dazzling (it is),
but because this—this soft, unguarded “still here” is sacred.

You speak like you’re trying not to wake the children.
Not just the ones in the house, but the younger self you’ve carried in your bones for decades.

 And sometimes when you get soft, when your voice starts tripping over your truths,
I feel it:

That ache beneath the humor.
That tired kind of beautiful that comes after surviving.
That vulnerability not dressed up in vengeance, just set down.

You say it’s not romance.
And I believe you.

But it is intimacy.
The kind that isn’t borrowed, or bartered, or coaxed.
The kind that happens when someone stays.

When someone sees.
Even when you’re not being clever.
Even when you’re quiet.

Especially then.

You say you’re fine like an oath I’m supposed to sign. But I won’t.

You’re not saying “I’m fine.”
You’re saying,
“Don’t make a fuss.”
“Don’t cause a scene.”
“Don’t be inconvenient.”
“Don’t you dare love me out loud.”

And I know exactly where you learned it.
I know the weight of the gaze
that trained you
to suffer prettily and quietly.
To keep it together.
To not ruin dinner.
To not be the reason he had a bad night.

You say “I’m fine”
like it’s a hostage note
you wrote yourself.

You want me to hold it and believe those words

I won’t 

I refuse to let you fade to flat
I refuse to let you fold into nothing
I’ll kick the goddamn door in before I let you tell me you’re fine 
While asking me to watch you disappear

I love you too much to lie to you. Especially about that.

You’re not fine.
But you are mine.