Some mornings,
I look in the mirror and don't recognize the reflection,
as if love is a stranger who's forgotten my name,
as if the echo of my voice doesn't match the man I've become.
Each touch of my skin,
each curve of my chest,
feels like a secret that hasn't been fully told yet.
I wonder if they'll see me,
if they'll understand
the silence in the spaces between my wordsâ
the things I've carried in silence,
the fear that maybe,
just maybe,
they will only ever see me
as what I once was,
rather than the man I'm learning to become.
But then their hand finds mine,
warm and steady,
and for a moment,
I forget the mirror's reflection.
I forget the weight of what hasn't yet been said.
In that touch,
there's a love that doesn't ask
for anything
except my willingness to be here.
And maybe that's the hardest partâ
to let myself
be seen
as I am.