The Risks.

That whatever warming light he brings is sourced by more than wisps of filament. That the light will not burst when you’re brooding or silent. That he himself is light and will not darken, upon exposing you. That he will see your shadows, welcome them, find in the silhouettes something singular, invaluable. That you are your genuine selves. That he will wait. That you will. That patience isn’t foreign to you. That whatever needs to heal in him, in you, will mend in its time. That you will yield. That he will. That truth hums on his lips, long and low, a melody never quite too abrasive for ears. That this ache that comes in when he’s honest spurs honesty in you. That you will not lie to spare one another. That you will not become someone uncomfortable. That you will be spared. That the word “appease” has no translation here, in this subtle, dying dialect. That things will change. That he is right: it will not always be this way — whatever way this is. There will be more, not less. That this is not rehearsal. We are not curtained, cordoned. That this is more than a stage. That we have not roused a promising love, just to let it roar and starve and rot. That this distance is imagined. That indifference is imagined. That we’ll find each other walking, in the dark.

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