when you told me you were tired
i mistook the heavy in your voice for an exit
and began to pack away every fragile piece of myself
promising to disappear before you had the chance to leave
you asked for rest and i gave you a eulogy
i folded my excitement like a sharp clean knife
and buried it deep inside my chest
where it could only cut me
i apologized until my mouth was full of dust and gravel
trying to save us from the mess i made of loving you
i watch you carry your own exhaustion
while i keep handing you the weight of my shame
i was so afraid of bruising you
that i made you stay awake in the dark
just to hold my hands and convince me
i was still allowed to exist in your life
this morning i went into the warm yard and talked to the trees
i begged them to tell me how to stay rooted
without turning every gentle thing around me
into something that has to hold me up
i stood there crying into the quiet grass
wondering why my love always feels like an accident
i wanted to give you a place where the world couldn’t reach you
and instead i asked you to tend my wounds
while yours went quiet in the other room
i am so sorry
when all you ever needed from me
was permission to close your eyes
—lyra moon (what breaks the gentle thing is rarely the storm, it is being asked to be the shelter while the storm is still inside you)
august 4, 2026