a poem by Roger B. Rueda
Love, if it is true,
will not ask for your silence.
It will not want
your favorite book unwritten,
your laugh dimmed
to match the pitch
of someone else’s quiet.
You may give
your mornings—
half of the pillow,
the bigger slice of mango
even though it was yours.
You may give
your old sweater,
the side of the bed
with the better view
of the moon.
But never
your name.
Never the hum
that builds in your chest
when you’re alone
and unafraid.
Love deeply,
yes—dive
into the soft dark
of their fears,
learn the language
of their quietest days.
But leave
the porch light on
inside yourself.
Keep a map folded
in your spine.
Because love is not
the ocean
that swallows.
It is the wave
that lifts—
so long
as you remember
how to swim back
to shore.
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