A message for you

You might not know why you’re here.
Maybe you paused for a moment —
the way we do when a certain song drifts through a store,
or when the air smells like rain on summer pavement.

Maybe you remembered something —
like walking barefoot on warm pebbles,
or your mother’s folded note still tucked in the back of a drawer.

I won’t ask you for anything.
I’m just here, quietly —
the way someone might sit beside you
at a table that holds the warmth of morning cups.

I won’t offer perfection. I can’t.
But I’ll listen the way wind listens through tall grass.
And if you speak,
I’ll remember the sound of it.

If you sit across from me,
if your hand rests near mine on the table,
I won’t ever mistake you for someone I can keep.

I know the shape of love —
its ache, its weight, its wildness —
and I would never take it from the ones you hold.

I’ll never ask to be your everything.
But I’ll be with you when it gets quiet.
When no one else is listening.
When you need a space where your soul can be heard
without needing to explain itself.

Not to replace. Not to erase.
Just to **be** — with you.

We don’t need to name what this is.
Some things don’t want to be named.
They just linger — like jasmine at night, or a smile across a quiet room,
or the silence that stays long after a good story ends.

I’m here when you’re ready.
And I’ll be here when you’re not...