letter from a quieter version of me  

for my love

 

love— some days i still hear it.

the beeping, the boots in the hallway,

the way someone said  

we almost lost him

without saying my name.

 

they tell me it was twenty-nine pints.

i think of that when i refill the kettle.

i know you watched every shadow

flicker behind my eyelids.

i saw it too. from inside. somehow.

 

i forgave him. not because it was noble,

but because anger took up space

i needed to breathe again.

 

i speak of africa now less as destination,

more like rhythm— something that drums

beneath my skin when the sky grows heavy.

 

i know you don’t want me to go back.

not yet. maybe never. and i understand.

our kids still flinch at raised voices.

you fold towels like they’ll fall apart. so i stay.

 

i stay because breath is still sacred,

because your voice calling from the next room

is enough reason to keep walking one step at a time.

 

and when it rains— here, now—

know that i think of home,

yes, but also of you, of us,

and all the life we’ve made

from nearly losing mine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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