Fragments of Cassandra

To be loved by me

is to slowly forget
that you ever had to apologize
for taking up space,
or choosing yourself.

It is learning
that your existence
does not need
to earn its welcome.

Love,
to me,
has never been measured
by convenience.

It is measured
by remembering.

The tea you always order.

The books
you love to read.

The jacket
you forgot
on the back of the chair.

The way your shoulders tense
when a room grows too loud.

I notice.

Not because I am trying.

Because loving you
changes what my eyes
naturally look for.

I will take the longer road
if it brings me to you.

I will sit in traffic
without watching the clock.

I will drive through the night
with tired eyes
if it means
you do not have to wonder
whether someone is coming.

I will answer the phone
half asleep.

Turn the car around.

Wait outside appointments.

Hold your hand
through crowded rooms

until the noise 
in your head forgets
it ever needed
to outrun itself.

Not because I have to.
Because I choose to.

Every day,
I choose to.

And I hope,
slowly,
you begin to understand

that being loved
was never supposed to feel
like asking for too much.

The garden
does not apologize
for needing water.

The sea
does not apologize
for returning
to the shore.

The moon
asks the night
to carry it
without shame.

Everything beautiful
depends upon something.

Need
is not a flaw.

It is simply
the shape
that love
was made to fill.

So if you forget your jacket,
forget it.

If the drive is long,
let it be.

If your heart
needs reassurance
for the hundredth time,
come here.

Let me tell you
for the hundred-and-first.

Because loving you
will never feel
like carrying a weight.

It feels
like being trusted
with something precious.

And there are very few honors
greater than that.

So please;
inconvenience me.

Give me the chance
to love you
in all the ordinary ways
the world taught you
to apologize for.

I promise,
they will never feel
ordinary
to me.



Be’ahava,
Cassandra