I used to joke about your name
as if it didn’t fit you-
harsh in the same way you once were to me.
I wanted to believe it did,
but your actions said otherwise then.
Eighth grade me would laugh if she could see me now-
soft in the quiet of my own home,
waiting for your arrival,
calm in the way you show up to walk through my door with the same legs we once turned into a joke.
You were louder back then-
the kind of class clown I learned to ignore because of you.
I dismissed them all before history could repeat itself.
But time did something to you;
or maybe you did something to yourself.
Because now you move intentionally.
Quiet.
Observant.
Soft.
You don’t demand space in my life-
you make it safe enough that I offer it freely.
Somewhere between the boy who refused to be kind and the man I can’t ignore;
I realized you grew into it,
and I grew into you.
