What I Carry For You

I want to tell you something,
but the words keep catching fire
before they reach my mouth —
burned down by my own desire
to say it right, to say it whole,
to make you understand
that this isn't a passing warmth,
it's a compass in my hand
that keeps pointing back to you
no matter where I stand.

I think of all the small things —
the way you laugh too loud,
the way you make the ordinary
feel like something wild and proud.
I think of how a simple text
can turn my whole day bright,
how your name across my screen
undoes the weight of night.

Should I let this feeling breathe,
let it walk out in the open,
risk the quiet after saying it,
risk a heart cut open?
Or should I keep it folded small,
tucked beneath my ribs,
safe from every doubt
that whispers and that jibs?

I want to tell you something —
not to make you chase,
not to trap you in a moment
you didn't mean to face.
I just want you to know
that when I picture something good,
something lasting, something soft,
you're always where I stood.

So I'll wait a little longer,
let my courage catch its breath,
let the quiet do the asking
before the words get said.
But know that if you reached for me,
I wouldn't hesitate —
I've been ready for a while now.
I've just been waiting on the date

when you decide to tell me
what I've longed to hear you say —
that you carry what I carry,
that you feel it every day.
And if that's true, then let it show,
let it rise up unafraid —
because I've loved you quietly
long enough. I'm done delayed.