There is a weight in waiting,
a quiet ache in wondering
whether I am enough,
whether I am the man they see,
or if I am still caught in the blur
of someone else's mirror.
I spend too many nights
thinking of the love I've yet to receive,
not because it isn't offered,
but because it feels too fragile,
too new,
too much like I don't deserve it,
like my hands
still tremble when they reach for something
I've always wanted but never believed was mine.
But then, in the soft glow of morning,
they hold me
like I've always been the one they've wanted,
and for a moment,
the waiting stops.
There's no past
no future
just the steady rhythm of breath
and the tenderness of love
finding a way
to wrap itself around me
just as I am.