I have been writing about you recently,
and it terrifies me.
I remember the days when my friends asked if I had a muse,
and I would laugh —
I am my poetry, I’d say.
But somewhere between the lines,
the ink stopped belonging to me.
When did my words become yours?
When did my soul slip from my grasp into your hands?

I am more you than myself now.
I wear your shadows,
and your silence shapes my breath.
I fear it’s happening again —
this heart of mine has begun to feel again.
I swore I had buried it,
but your voice stirred the dust.

I thought you were just another passing storm,
like the one who left before,
like all those who taught me
that softness was a curse.
But, God — I hope.
I hope you are not.
I hope you don’t prove me right.
I hope you don’t hate me
when you hear the truth
bleeding from my trembling lips.

I hope.
I hope.
I hope.
I really do.

Is there anything left for me
but to pray
that your heart, long wintered,
will bloom again?