how still things bloom

i know that love is real
because i exist.
not just in the breathing or the waking up
but in the quiet ache that wraps around my ribs
when i think of someone who’s not even here yet
and still feels like home.

i am so full of love
some days, i forget how to be hungry for anything else.
i carry it in my body like honey,
thick and heavy and golden,
coating every part of me that was once hollow.

this is to the man who makes my chest feel like it's holding too much sky.
to the way he looks at me like i am both miracle and morning.
to the hands that don’t just hold me
but remind me what safety feels like
when it stops being an idea and becomes a person.

he takes care of me in ways no one taught him—
in the way he listens when i don’t speak
in the way he sees the small things,
like how i avoid the light when i’m tired,
or how i overthink silence.

i never knew i needed someone.
not because i didn’t want to be loved,
but because i had grown used to needing being dangerous.
i mistook survival for strength.

but he—
he made softness feel like a shield
not a weakness.
he taught me that gentleness is not a wound
but a way of being seen and still staying whole.

the love i’ve always whispered for in half-dreams
has finally knocked at my door
with bags full of patience, and eyes that don’t flinch.
and the only thing i ask of the universe now—
is not to make it louder
or brighter
or even bigger—
just let it stay.
let it grow old with me.
let it wrinkle and weather and still reach for me in the dark.

because if love is real because i exist,
then let it be known:
i existed better because i was loved.
and maybe that’s what it all comes down to—
not how much we owned,
but how deeply we were held.
how still things bloom,
when they’re not afraid anymore.