Let me be indebted
to your vulnerability—
not paid in pride,
nor interest in things.
Show me not your trophies,
not the weight of gold
you carry in silence.
Let me owe you
for the tremble in your voice,
for the tear you didn’t wipe,
for that crack in your certainty
where your humanness slips through
like a candle through a wound.
Do not deafen me
with declarations of emptiness,
or parade your fullness
to prove what you lack.
Let me sit with you—
not to fix,
but to feel
the sacred poverty
of being open,
of being real.
Let me be indebted
to the truth
you dared
to whisper.
