Through the Fog

Tag: love

  • You Say I Can’t

    You say I can’t have him

    like love is something

    you get to hand out

    or take away.

    Like my heart

    needs your permission

    to beat the way it does

    when he says my name.

    You speak in lines and limits,

    in rules I never agreed to—

    drawing borders

    around something

    that never asked to be contained.

    But you don’t feel it.

    You don’t know

    what it’s like

    to find someone

    who quiets the noise,

    who fits into your thoughts

    like they’ve always belonged there.

    You don’t know

    how rare it is

    to feel seen

    without having to explain yourself.

    So don’t tell me

    what I can’t have.

    Don’t reduce this

    to right or wrong,

    allowed or forbidden,

    as if love

    has ever listened

    to reason.

    Because this—

    whatever this is—

    isn’t yours to judge.

    It lives in me.

    It breathes in him.

    And whether it lasts

    or breaks me open,

    it’s still mine

    to feel.

  • Where We’re Headed

    I’ve thought about you all night—

    in the quiet between hours,

    when the world loosens its grip

    and thoughts stop pretending

    to be small.

    You showed up in fragments:

    the sound of your voice,

    the way your name settles

    in my chest,

    the life we’re slowly walking toward.

    Sleep came and went

    without permission.

    My mind stayed awake,

    circling you like a promise,

    not desperate—

    just sure.

    If you felt a pull in the dark,

    a warmth you couldn’t explain,

    maybe it was me—

    already holding space

    for where we’re going next.

  • The Only Bad You’d Ever Done

    The only bad you’d ever done

    was see the good in me—

    a version of myself

    I didn’t believe in,

    a softness I’d buried,

    a light I swore

    I didn’t deserve.

    You looked at me

    like I was something worth keeping,

    even when I was all sharp edges

    and quiet storms,

    even when I pushed you away

    just to see if you’d stay.

    You loved the parts of me

    I learned to hide,

    held the pieces

    I was ashamed to touch,

    saw something whole

    in someone who felt

    always broken.

    Maybe that was the problem—

    you saw the best in me

    when I was drowning

    in the worst of myself.

    Maybe the only bad thing

    you ever did

    was believe

    I was better

    than I knew how to be.

  • Experience, Misnamed

    What made us think we were wise—

    was it the way we survived

    without stopping to ask

    what it was costing us?

    We confused endurance with understanding,

    mistook scars for proof,

    called repetition experience

    and believed pain automatically meant growth.

    We spoke with certainty

    before we learned how little we knew.

    Loved like permanence was guaranteed.

    Spent time like it couldn’t betray us.

    We thought being strong meant staying,

    that knowing better would come later,

    that consequences were lessons

    meant for someone else.

    But wisdom didn’t arrive in confidence—

    it came quietly,

    through loss,

    through regret,

    through the ache of realizing

    we would choose differently now.

    Maybe we weren’t wise.

    Maybe we were just brave enough

    to keep going

    without instructions.

  • I’ve been waiting all night

    Not pacing.

    Not counting the hours.

    Just staying awake

    in that quiet way

    where hope doesn’t make noise.

    Waiting like you wait for a light to turn on

    in a room you know by heart.

    Waiting because some part of me believed

    you’d come back to this moment,

    to this breath,

    to me saying it out loud.

    I’ve been waiting all night—

    not because I had nothing else,

    but because this mattered.

  • Change

    I want to change everything—

    not out of hate for who I was,

    but out of love for who

    I’m finally brave enough

    to become.

    I’m tired of surviving days

    that were meant to be lived.

    Tired of shrinking myself

    to fit places that never felt like home.

    So I’ll start small—

    a thought, a boundary, a choice.

    And one by one,

    the life I’ve been carrying

    will learn how to let me go.

    I don’t need to burn it all down.

    I just need to stop building

    on what was breaking me.

  • Learning to Stay

    I used to look for myself

    in other people’s hands,

    measure my worth

    by how tightly they held on.

    But I am learning—

    slowly, unevenly—

    how to stay

    when the room gets quiet,

    how to sit with my own heart

    without asking it to be smaller.

    I speak to myself now

    the way I once begged others to.

    Gently.

    With patience.

    With the understanding

    that healing isn’t linear

    and neither am I.

    I forgive the versions of me

    that didn’t know better,

    that chose survival over softness,

    that loved fiercely

    without knowing how to be safe.

    I am not perfect,

    but I am present.

    And today,

    that is enough.

    I am learning to be someone

    I don’t have to run from—

    someone I can come home to

    and rest.

  • Slow Dancing at 2AM

    Photo Credit: Hanna Lazar

    Slow dancing at 2am,

    George Strait humming low through the room,

    bare feet on cold floors,

    the world asleep

    while we stay awake

    inside this small, borrowed moment.

    No crowd but the shadows,

    no spotlight but the lamp in the corner.

    Your hand at my waist

    like it’s always known

    where it belongs,

    like this song was written

    for the way we move together.

    We sway without counting time,

    letting George 

    tell the story for us—

    about love that lasts,

    about staying,

    about choosing each other

    without making a sound.

    At 2am, nothing is rushed.

    Nothing is heavy.

    There is only you,

    only me,

    and a slow song playing softly enough

    to feel like a promise

    we don’t have to say out loud.

  • Left at the Door

    Photo Credit: Max LaRochelle

    You should have left me at the door,

    warned me I was trouble dressed as hope.

    But you let me in—

    soft smile, open hands,

    no armor in sight.

    Now your heart is on the floor,

    shattered where my shadows fell.

    I never meant to ruin the quiet,

    I just never learned how to love

    without bleeding through everything.

    If I could gather the pieces,

    I would.

    But some of us arrive like storms—

    not to destroy,

    just never taught how to stay gentle.

  • Lessons

    Everyone you meet

    has something to teach you—

    even the ones who stay a moment,

    even the ones who leave too soon.

    Some will show you kindness,

    soft as sunlight on tired skin.

    Some will show you strength,

    quiet and unspoken,

    the kind born from surviving.

    Others will show you pain—

    not to break you,

    but to uncover the places

    you still need to heal.

    Some will teach you patience,

    some will teach you boundaries,

    and a few rare souls

    will teach you love

    in a way you never knew existed.

    Every person is a chapter,

    every encounter a line—

    and whether you keep them

    or let them go,

    they shape you

    in ways you won’t see

    until later.

    Everyone you meet

    has something to teach you—

    and sometimes

    the lesson

    is simply

    who you’re becoming.