Love
“Some connections aren’t loud—they linger.”
Bed Light
Night doesn’t rush answers.
It lowers the volume.
This is about what stays awake
when the world goes dim—
and what finally gets heard.
I move in and out.
They move in.
Then they move out.
My bed light is the moon now.
From a horizontal vantage point,
I watch the sun escort the day
out of the sky—
applause fading behind it.
The co-star is on its way.
The moon becomes my bed light
when the room is darker inside.
I put the North Star aside.
A shooting star survives
above the level of disguise.
If you looked closely,
you’d see the spark in my eyes—
you’d know the moon is my bed light.
I’m a gemstone,
refreshed by what I’ve survived,
aligned just in time.
Light on my skin—obsidian,
maybe onyx.
This is what I promised myself:
one day,
the moon would be my bed light.
Body Smile
Before the mouth learns joy,
the body tells the truth.
A shoulder relaxes.
A breath leans in.
The spine remembers how to listen.
This is not a smile you practice.
It arrives without instruction,
without mirrors,
without witnesses.
The body smiles
when it feels safe enough
to be honest.
And nothing
is louder than that.
Your veins are threads
beneath a mesh of skin.
Your complexion—
chocolate,
dusted with sugar-cinnamon.
Enough
Forget the performance.
I keep my heart
where it can breathe
without auditioning.
I am not more
when I’m chosen,
and I am not less
when I’m left.
Nothing is missing.
Nothing needs approval.
I didn’t become enough—
I remembered I already was.
Maybe love isn’t enough.
Maybe what I’m asking for
is to be loved
the way I need.
Maybe I’m asking for a home
inside a person.
If your heart can’t hold me,
hold me in your soul.
Forget the performance.
I keep my heart
where it’s safe.
Nathalie
A quiet thank-you to someone who showed up with consistency, grace, and care
—before it was understood, before it was returned.
“Some people love you without ever asking to be chosen.”
For many years.
I’ve had a friend named Nathalie.
I liked her.
She knew I liked her.
When I met another girl,
she got jealous—
but never cruel.
She hugged me every day.
Every single day.
She’d say,
don’t pick me
like she was already protecting herself
from the future.
When I got locked up,
she wrote me.
I still have that letter.
That’s not nostalgia—
that’s proof.
I never forgot
I just didn’t know how to say
thank you back then.
So this is me saying it now.
I see you.
I remember you.
I appreciate you.
Some love doesn’t ask for anything.
It just stays kind.