You placed a box of tissues in every room in your house for me-
The skin on my nostrils were sore from blowing my nose too much.
I’d been carrying the same box around with me for several hours-
a nuisance I never complained about but you didn’t want me to have, regardless.
And I’d woken up with the worst headache,
Sinus pressure that only a hot shower at 5:45am had been able to cure enough for me to fall asleep in the first place-
You’d started the water and kissed my head before leaving me to my Tylenol and snotty misery.
I’m not used to being cared for anymore.
You still do it better than anyone I’ve ever loved ever has.
And we aren’t in love yet.
I’ve been grieving the man who taught me how to trust your hands because he had gentle hands of his own;
You’d told me to take all the time I need because I’m worth waiting for-
And I cried in the shower the same night over it
Because there are some kinds of patience that feel a lot like grief when you first receive them.
You bought and placed a box of tissues in every room of your house for me.
My brain still searches for fingerprints that aren’t there-
But gentleness existed long enough for me to recognize it when it found me again.
