I wasn't looking to hold you, or even be held by you.
Your wife slept in the other room and you gently woke
her up to let her know I'd be staying here.
You didn't know that I'd run away,
unable to face the fury at home,
unable to let anyone know I failed.
You didn't ask, and for that, I was grateful.
With a quilt and comforter in hand,
you showed me the guest sofa.
I felt needy in a way I would usually hate myself for.
But I let myself be vulnerable.
We sat in a comfortable silence as I read
compassion in your face, and for once,
I didn't feel the urge to defend myself
or explain or even laugh it all off.
We listened to the owls and the rush of wind
as it rustled the dying autumn leaves.
You only moved twice to stoke the fire
that lit the room with a comforting glow.
You knew I was far from home.
You knew the silence meant I was hurting
more deeply than you'd seen before.
With kind hands speaking of no ill intentions,
you tucked the blankets in tightly,
reminding me to wake you if I needed anything.
And when I woke up, finding myself in my own room,
glancing at the frost on the windows,
I didn't shiver.
I felt the warmth and safety of your presence,
from simply being close,
