Where I Rest
[August 2025]
There is a place I return to, over and over.
Not a building. Not a bed.
But you.
In your arms, I am home—no matter the storm, no matter how far I’ve wandered in mind or flesh.
The world could be crumbling quietly beyond our walls,
but you breathe against my neck, and I forget to be afraid.
You are peace, disguised in silver light.
Not the absence of chaos—no, never that--
but the stillness that anchors me in its midst.
You steady me when I spin too fast,
ground me when I rattle like wind in loose bones.
And when I falter--
on days when my shoulders carry more than they should,
when my hands ache from holding the line too long--
you don’t ask me to be strong.
You remind me I already am.
You remind me I don’t have to do it alone.
You kiss the battle from my brow,
with lips like poetry I never want to unlearn.
And you love me—not just for who I try to be,
but for every strange, beautiful, broken piece I already am.
I have known joy. I have known fire. I have known longing.
But with you, I have learned comfort.
And that is its own kind of magic.
So let this be a promise whispered into your skin tonight:
That I will always return.
To your warmth.
To your smile.
To the sanctuary of us.
Because in this vast world of noise and motion,
you are the place where I rest.
And the reason I rise again.
Not a building. Not a bed.
But you.
In your arms, I am home—no matter the storm, no matter how far I’ve wandered in mind or flesh.
The world could be crumbling quietly beyond our walls,
but you breathe against my neck, and I forget to be afraid.
You are peace, disguised in silver light.
Not the absence of chaos—no, never that--
but the stillness that anchors me in its midst.
You steady me when I spin too fast,
ground me when I rattle like wind in loose bones.
And when I falter--
on days when my shoulders carry more than they should,
when my hands ache from holding the line too long--
you don’t ask me to be strong.
You remind me I already am.
You remind me I don’t have to do it alone.
You kiss the battle from my brow,
with lips like poetry I never want to unlearn.
And you love me—not just for who I try to be,
but for every strange, beautiful, broken piece I already am.
I have known joy. I have known fire. I have known longing.
But with you, I have learned comfort.
And that is its own kind of magic.
So let this be a promise whispered into your skin tonight:
That I will always return.
To your warmth.
To your smile.
To the sanctuary of us.
Because in this vast world of noise and motion,
you are the place where I rest.
And the reason I rise again.
