nathan91
Pillar From a Distance
I keep circling the thought that real love might mean leaving,
that the kindest thing my hands could do is open.
But my dear, I can’t. You dismantled every wall
I built to keep the world out, and now
there’s nowhere in me that isn’t yours.
I can’t fix you. That was never mine to carry.
I can only fix me, slow and unglamorous,
and still I ask the question I know better than to ask:
can we heal side by side, or is that just
another way of reaching for your hand
when I should be letting go of it?
Probably the wrong approach. I know.
So here’s what’s true instead: I miss you.
I was ready to give so much,
all of it, without counting.
But some love doesn’t get to be close.
Some love becomes a pillar instead,
something steady, something that holds its ground
from a distance, in the quiet architecture of prayer,
asking for your peace even when I can’t be
the one standing next to you in it.
I love you. That part isn’t complicated.
The rest is just learning how to love you
with my hands finally still.
