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.