Steady

I used to think love was something

that arrived loud.

It came like weather,

unannounced,

electric,

pulling the tide of me

toward whoever held the lightning.

I mistook intensity for depth.

Mistook longing for fate.

Mistook chaos for chemistry.

My heart learned to sprint.

My body learned to brace.

My nights learned to ache.

I cried in cars.

I loved men who felt like fire alarms.

I called adrenaline devotion.

And I survived it.

But surviving love is not the same as living in it.

Now I walk into rooms differently.

I notice who makes my shoulders drop.

Who does not crowd my space.

Who listens all the way through my sentences

before speaking.

I notice who remembers.

Who asks again a week later.

Who leaves when I grow quiet

instead of pulling at me harder.

I notice who feels like breathing.

There is a man whose presence

does not light me on fire.

He feels like open air.

When he is not there,

I look for him, not desperately,

just the way you look for a window

in a crowded room.

When we speak,

it is easy.

Like walking side by side

instead of chasing or being chased.

We talk about hiking.

About stopping to rest.

About stars and beaches and camping.

And I imagine us laughing on a trail,

not racing,

not proving,

just noticing the trees.

I do not feel my pulse in my throat.

I do not feel my body tense.

I do not feel the old hunger.

I feel steady.

And steady is new.

There was another man

who made my body brace

before my mind could explain why.

I called myself sensitive.

I called myself dramatic.

But my nervous system knew.

Relief is a kind of truth.

So is calm.

I am learning the difference between spark and safety,

between intrusion and intimacy,

between chaos and care.

I do not want fireworks anymore.

I want mornings that begin softly.

Conversations that do not require strategy.

Silence that does not feel heavy.

A love that lets me breathe.

Five years from now

I see myself grounded,

not gripping,

not guessing,

not shrinking.

Just present.

If something grows,

let it grow slowly.

Like roots, not flames.

If it stays friendship,

let it be warm and mutual.

If it becomes love,

let it be built on quiet.

I am no longer impressed by storms.

I am impressed by steadiness.

I am not looking to be consumed.

I am looking to exhale.

And for the first time,

I trust that I will choose

what keeps me calm.