Hands

It was that deep—

the way you held me

in the palms of your hands.

The kindness in your eyes

completely disarmed me.

Your smile lit up my core—

but it wasn’t a forest fire.

It was a slow,

warm burn

that put me at ease.

It was that deep

when I drew my sword—

every wound

triggered

by a single message.

It was that deep

when the truth hit,

and weeks later,

my heart cracked

wide open

and crumbled.

When I swallowed my ego,

my pride,

to give you the flowers

you so deeply deserved—

and maybe didn’t.

It was that deep

when you drew your sword,

and I met it

with kindness.

With compassion.

And it still is

that deep—

even in the silence,

even in the void.

You’ll never know

how many cords I’ve cut,

how many bridges I’ve burned,

just to move

and shift

with the waves.

Maybe you’ll never know

it was that deep.

Fear grips us

by the throat.

But I’m grateful—

grateful for the lessons,

grateful for knowing

it was that deep.

And for me,

that’s enough.