Just in case

look—

i didn’t come to rescue you.

i came because

i couldn’t stop imagining you barefoot

in the kitchen,

making instant coffee with sugar,

in a half-busted thermos

like it’s an act of defiance.

I don’t have answers,

but i’ve got bread.

and time.

and the good sense

to know when not to touch

so something can bloom.

your daughter leaves,

and you’re left behind

like a house missing the finger paintings on the wall.

i’m not here to replace the art.

i just want to sit with the echo

and let you talk

until it softens.

you say you want to swim,

get your old tits back,

find her a stepdad.

and i think—

if you ever really wanted,

with what you’ve got now

you would’ve already made me stay.

but that’s not what i’m here for.

i’m not even sure i’m here for you.

maybe i’m here because

out of all the places my voice could land,

yours is the only one

where it sleeps through the night.

i’d love to kiss you.

but more than that,

i’d love if you looked for me later

without shame tangled in your ribs.

i’m not here to make you open.

i’m here so that if you ever do,

you’ll know

i won’t run.

and if you don’t—

i’ll still be here.

i’ll just leave your side

of the bed with a pillow.

just in case.