If I Were More Brave

I don’t say it,

because softness like this

feels risky when it’s real.

But if I more brave—

I’d tell you that

you’re the kind of calm I didn’t know I needed.

That your laugh wraps around my thoughts

long after you’ve left the room.

I ache for more

in ways I don’t always name.

Little moments press against the inside of my chest—

daydreams disguised as passing thoughts,

flickering like sunlight

on things I’m not supposed to want.

Sometimes, when you’re near,

my mind drifts

like the hum of guitar strings

right after they’ve been touched—

that lingering vibration

that says something real was here.

I’d tell you

that the way you exist in the world—

unbothered, open,

with just enough wild tucked into your spirit—

makes me wonder

how it would feel

to be ached for feverishly

by someone like you.

And maybe that’s what this is.

Not a confession, really.

Just a quiet truth

I keep folded between

the moments we don’t talk about.

If I were more brave,

you wouldn’t have to wonder—

but maybe you’re not wondering at all.

And maybe that’s what quietly unsettles me.

Because sometimes,

silence speaks louder than words…

And I still don’t know what yours are saying.