You loved me

in intervals

in pauses long enough

to teach my body

how to wait.

In crumbs.

In almosts.

In the space where promises

hovered but never landed.

I learned hunger

by the way you delayed me,

how silence learned my name,

how absence dressed itself

as depth.

You called it space.

My body called it alarm.

I mistook your distance for gravity,

thought the pull meant meaning,

thought love was something

earned by shrinking.

You fed me warmth

like a trick of light

just enough to keep my hope awake,

never enough to let it rest.

Every almost

rewired my devotion.

Every delay

taught my nervous system

to kneel.

You loved me most

when I needed nothing,

when my voice stayed careful,

when my hunger stayed invisible

and your power stayed fed.

I set a place for you

at a table made of waiting,

called it patience

while my body hollowed itself

to fit your comfort.

And still

I love you.

That is the truth

I refuse to edit.

I love the man

who looked at me

like I was chosen,

even while teaching me

how to disappear.

I love you

and I can’t

I love you.

Because love should not feel

like famine mistaken for fate.

And if loving you means unlearning myself,

then loving myself

has to mean leaving you hungry for control