I am the harbor
steady, unshifting
and you are the tide that forgets I drown too.

Sometimes you shift
and something in you sharpens.
You wear your hurt like a blade,
and I become the body that receives it.

You spit fire into my softness,
cutting through me with words
that slip too easily from your mouth,
then try to vanish with the sunrise.

You say you don’t remember,
that you didn’t mean it,
But something inside you does.

Because if love lives beneath the surface,
then so does resentment.
And I’m starting to wonder
which of the two fuels you more
when the bottle opens
or the storm begins.

You rage like you’re emptying something.
As if I’m a vessel meant to catch
what the world has done to you.
But I have my own weight,
and still,
I will carry yours.

I cradle the aftermath in my chest,
while you sleep off the wreckage.

And when you wake,
you speak soft,
apologize like love can erase the wound
without cleaning the blood.

But memory has teeth.
And mine won’t stop gnawing
at the edges of your promises.

How many times can I be the calm?
How many nights can I be the one
who swallows the thunder
so the house doesn’t shake?

You forget.
I remember.
You sleep.
I ache.
And still,
I remain.