Their smiles are sharp, their praise is thin
a quiet war I cannot win.
I tiptoe through their silent tests,
a guest within my own unrest.
I shrink myself to keep things calm,
wrap my ache in borrowed balm.
I’ve outgrown the quiet ache of almost. These days, I crave love that shows up fully—tender, thoughtful, and whole. There’s a quiet kind of fading in always reaching first. In being the softness that’s met with stone, the peace that’s mistaken for surrender.
@Lovandfear It’s in those quiet moments of choosing the same person again and again that love becomes something deeper than just attraction or novelty.