I wanted you to love me on purpose—

not by accident, not as consolation,

not because I happened to be there

when loneliness knocked at your door.
I wanted to be your deliberate choice,

the name you wrote down when asked

who matters, who stays, who gets

the careful tending of your heart.
Not the love that stumbles into being,

born of convenience or proximity,

but the love that looks and decides:

Yes. You. With intention.
I wanted to be more than circumstance,

more than the right person

at the right time in the right place—

I wanted to be the person.
The one you'd choose again

in every lifetime, every version

of this story where we meet

and you love me on purpose.
But perhaps I've learned that love

doesn't always announce itself

with grand declarations—

sometimes it just quietly decides to stay.