Loving you
is loving a man unstuck in time.
Just when your laughter
begins to resonate in our house
and learns the shape of our hallway,
just when your hands remember
where my waist bends,
time grabs you by the collar
and pulls you away.
You leave at the peak—
when love is loud,
when the bed still holds heat,
when promises are mid-sentence.
And I am left
to live in echoes.
I pine in the afterglow of you,
warming myself on memories.
Your shirts smell of ordinary life—
coffee, your perfume, yesterday—
and I breathe them like oxygen
until today stops hurting.
You return altered.
Your eyes carry landscapes
I am not allowed to see.
Your silence is heavy, metallic,
as if it has marched too long.
You hold me
like someone checking for landmines.
You’ve seen horrors—
I can tell by how gently
you place your boots at the door,
by how sleep refuses you,
by how your body flinches
at kindness.
I do not ask for stories.
I know some wars
cannot be translated.
When you come back,
I become something else.
Not a lover waiting to be desired.
I am the field medic of your heart.
I learn the geography of your wounds.
I press love where language fails.
I stitch you together
with patience, with warmth,
with a faith that does not demand proof.
If time insists on breaking you
into before and after,
I will stand in the aftermath,
hands steady, voice soft,
loving you back into one piece.
I am not the woman
who asks you to stay.
I am the woman
who makes coming home possible.
Because
I am not a lover.
I am a healer. ❤️🩹
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