There are nights
I don’t know how to be a person—
when my body feels borrowed,
when I can’t remember
what safe even means.

And then—
your hand,
just resting on the back of my neck.
Not pulling, not fixing.
Just there.

No one tells you this,
but sometimes love
isn’t soft or sweet—
sometimes it’s heavy.
Like the weight of your arm across my chest
when the panic won’t let me sleep.

I don’t need poems about stars
or soulmates.
I need someone who understands
that when I say “I’m fine,”
but I flinch when I say it—
that means hold me tighter.

Touch is the first language I learned
and the only one I trust
when the world goes quiet.

I have been broken
in places no one can see—
but you trace those fractures
like a map,
and somehow,
without a single word,
you tell me
I still belong to something.

Your hand on my back
when I’m falling apart
is more sacred
than any prayer
I’ve ever said.