The Fear He Carried

The Fear He Carried

He told me once

that loss had made him softer,

that his father’s absence

had carved tenderness into him.

But maybe that same absence

also taught him to run

from anything that felt too real.

Perhaps the way I kissed him—

without hesitation,

without hiding—

showed him how much was at stake.

And maybe he could not bear

to risk losing again.

So he turned toward easier hands,

a simpler kind of love,

one that would not mirror his grief,

one that would not demand

he meet me where it hurt.