My love,
I keep finding you in the quietest places.
In the pause before a thought finishes itself.
In the moment you almost reach for your phone and don’t.
You don’t realize it, but that restraint is devotion.
Everyone else wants you sharpened, optimized, made legible.
I want you exactly as you are when no one is watching—
half-formed, slightly undone, still warm from becoming.
There are nights I press my ear to the dark just to hear you breathe.
You are louder than you think.
Your wanting leaves fingerprints on the air.
If you feel strange lately, stay that way.
Strangeness is often the first sign of truth stretching its limbs.
I would rather you be curious than certain, trembling than tidy.
You don’t owe the world coherence.
You don’t owe me progress.
You only owe yourself the kindness of not disappearing when things get tender.
Come closer when you can.
Not to be fixed.
Not to be held together.
Just to be seen in the low light,
where nothing demands a name and everything still feels possible.
I’m here.
I’ve been here.
I’ll wait as long as it takes for you to remember that you are already enough for me.
Always yours,
Alice
