While you were there.

You knocked
on a door that was never locked.
You came close,
but never quite came in.

You were away.
Some days, you stayed.
But even when you were beside me,
why did it always feel
like you were somewhere else?

I learned to do everything alone.
And God, how I longed
to have someone
I did not have to ask.

Someone who would notice.
Someone who would know.
Someone who would reach for my hand
before I had to say
I was already slipping.

So I waited.

I grew up watching
an imperfect kind of love.

I saw a husband
who took the lead
when life became heavy,
who carried what needed carrying
without being asked.

Maybe that is why
I kept hoping for the same.

Seven years,
and still no road ahead of us,
no certain place
where we were going.

I was in a relationship.

So why
did I feel so alone?

I was understanding.
I was patient.
I made excuses for the distance.
I softened my needs
so they would not sound like demands.

But how long
can I keep calling it love
when loving you
means losing pieces of myself?

How long can I wait
for something that may never come?