letter from a quieter version of me

for my love

letter from a quieter version of me for my love love— some days i still hear it. the beeping, the boots in the hallway, the way someone said we almost lost him without saying my name. they tell me it was twenty-nine pints. i think of that when i refill the kettle. i know you watched every shadow flicker behind my eyelids. i saw it too. from inside. somehow. i forgave him. not because it was noble, but because anger took up space i needed to breathe again. i speak of africa now less as destination, more like rhythm— something that drums beneath my skin when the sky grows heavy. i know you don’t want me to go back. not yet. maybe never. and i understand. our kids still flinch at raised voices. you fold towels like they’ll fall apart. so i stay. i stay because breath is still sacred, because your voice calling from the next room is enough reason to keep walking one step at a time. and when it rains— here, now— know that i think of home, yes, but also of you, of us, and all the life we’ve made from nearly losing mine. .