I stood with open hands,

offering only what was true—

no shadows, no hidden doors,

just the steady weight of honesty.

But trust, it seems, was not in me,

not in the way I held my ground,

not in the way I swore to you

that nothing wavered in my heart.

Instead, it sat like glass between us,

thin, fragile, waiting to shatter.

And each time I spoke her name,

it cracked a little more.

You watched her in the spaces between,

in glances, in words, in presence alone,

not for what was, but for what could be,

for the threat you saw, but I did not.

You asked for walls I couldn’t build,

lines I couldn’t paint in fear,

as if care could not stand steady

without closing every door.

I tried to show you, again and again,

that my hands were empty,

but doubt is a stubborn thing—

it does not yield to reason,

it does not bend to truth.

So we stood at the edge of love,

one step forward, one step back,

and I saw the question in your eyes—

a silent plea: prove it again.

But love, real love, does not beg,

does not kneel to suspicion’s weight,

does not demand a cost so high

that trust is lost along the way.

I never asked you not to feel—

I only asked for faith in me.

But faith, it seems, was not enough,

and so we walk away.