to my future husband (revised)
as i lie in the thick breath of summer heat,
sleepless, beneath the hush of midnight walls,
the one who will quiet the tremble in my hands,
and press rest gently onto my eyelids,
until my worry lines forget their shape.
i hope you ask nothing more than what i can give,
and recognize the weight of what i offer:
love that’s been unstitched and sewn again,
if you receive it with steady arms—
the kind that hold without conquest—
know that took more courage than i had to spare.
but if you let me speak without shrinking,
and listen when my voice stumbles in the dark,
if i can unravel beside you, word by word,
without fearing your departure—
you will have touched something holy in me.
i’ve never handed myself over, not fully—
not the rooms where old grief sleeps,
not the corners where i hide the softest versions of myself.
but if you aid me in stilling the storms that churn inside my skull,
and walk me ashore with you,
i will not leave your side.
if you love me with tenderness, not possession—
like a knight who loves his beloved
but for the way she whispers in sleep—
then know i will be forever grateful to God,
that someone has finally cherished
what you will have been to me.
all that i hope you will be.