Still, Always Yours
I never let your name rot in anyone’s mouth.
I stitched you into my shadow,
wore our love like a second soul —
barely tethered,
always flickering,
but burning
just the same.
You ask for trust
like it’s a light switch.
But trust is a bruise
that doesn’t fade overnight.
Now, when you speak my name,
another voice stirs beneath the calm—
whispers tangled in quiet echoes.
I swallow the stillness,
so no cracks show on my skin.
You don’t wait for the silence to break,
the wind rising behind my words—
the door shuts softly,
before the shadows
can stretch beyond you.
It was the preacher's tongue,
spitting salt into open wounds.
A bottle burst — grief in dressing form,
white and cold across the leather.
The clock tower held me hostage,
each tick peeling me further
from the skin I wear for you.
And you —
you were shoreline in a storm,
and I crashed into you
because I had nowhere else
to break.
I said I was sorry.
You said “leave me alone.”
So I did.
And I will again.
Again.
Again.
Until you're ready.
Because love —
real love —
doesn’t pack a bag and leave
at the first slammed door.
It waits
on the porch
with tired eyes
and steady hands.
Still.
Always.
Yours.
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