Lantern at the River’s Edge

A riverbank confession of love, accountability, and gentle growth.

I held your moonlit grief,
turned it toward my own reflection,
and left your wounds shivering
in night air that should have warmed us both.

Your eyes asked for water;
I handed you a mirror,
then wondered why you stepped away thirsty.

By dawn I walk the riverbank,
pockets heavy with stones I once hurled.
I lay them in ever-widening circles,
each rock a sarcastic spark,
each ripple a promise to speak softer.

A heron lifts through the mist.
Its wings beat three small prayers:
listen, pause, listen.

Here, beside the spiral of apology,
I write your name in sand
and do not wait for any tide to answer.
If these lines never cross your doorstep
may they still light the rooms I enter after you.

If one day they find you…
folded,
forgotten…
touch the paper; feel my pulse inside it.

I am learning to stay when the sky goes dark,
to leave every door on its hinges,
to carry water, not matches,
to ask what the storm needs
before naming the clouds.

Love does not end; it apprentices.
I practice in secret,
holding back my own thunder,
waiting until the small bird in your throat
is sure it can sing.

Should our paths braid again,
may your heart recognize
the hush in my hands
and rest there, unafraid.

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