letter from a quieter version of me
for my love

love— some days i still hear it.
the beeping, the boots in the hallway,
the way someone said
we almost lost him
without saying my name.

they tell me it was twenty-nine pints.
i think of that when i refill the kettle.
i know you watched every shadow
flicker behind my eyelids.
i saw it too. from inside. somehow.

i forgave him. not because it was noble,
but because anger took up space
i needed to breathe again.

i speak of africa now less as destination,
more like rhythm— something that drums
beneath my skin when the sky grows heavy.

i know you don’t want me to go back.
not yet. maybe never. and i understand.
our kids still flinch at raised voices.
you fold towels like they’ll fall apart. so i stay.

i stay because breath is still sacred,
because your voice calling from the next room
is enough reason to keep walking one step at a time.

and when it rains— here, now—
know that i think of home,
yes, but also of you, of us,
and all the life we’ve made
from nearly losing mine.







.