It builds itself in the light of the soft hours, a scaffolding of breath, half mothwing, half anchor.
I am both unlatched and moored, hands picking to learn the seams.
You are a map that never quite matches the ground, a constellated tangle of “what ifs” threaded through steady light.
Sometimes I measure myself through sharp questions:
Did I say too much? Am I enough?
They sprout like thin vines where confidence once stood;
But I’ve learned their edges now, and they’ve grown softer.
Your laugh is a ledger where my doubts are tallied and returned to me not as errors, but chapters.
Love, in its patience, is a room with windows that fog and clear.
Each mirror showing both my crooked edges and the whole.
It makes me tremble and it teaches me weight: how to hold and how to be held,
how to live the ache of being seen and safe.
The insecurity is there, a quiet hum beneath the floorboards.
But I’ve stopped trying to tear them up, some days I just lie down,
and listen, and the hum becomes a lullaby. You are there.
And you are still here. That steadiness becomes the truest architecture I know.
