I don’t just want to know you—
I want to reach the places
no one else has ever touched.
To be the only one
who understands your silence,
who learns the language
of every layer you carry.
I want to take my time with you—
not to rush what’s rare,
but to discover it fully.
I pray for you in ways
you won’t always see—
asking God to fill your days
with peace, with light,
with a kind of love
that never leaves you empty.
And even in absence,
I hope I’m still somehow there—
in the quiet,
in the moments
you don’t speak about.
There isn’t a second
you don’t cross my mind—
because loving you
doesn’t come and go.
It stays.
It remains—
steady,
consistent,
everlasting.
I think about how rare this is—
how lucky I am
to have found something
that feels like more than chance,
something that came
when I wasn’t looking.
And I don’t take it lightly—
I never could.
Because I’m here for all of it—
the highs, the lows,
the parts that shine
and the ones that don’t.
As long as it’s with you.
I don’t want to replace
what came before me—
I just want to be the one
who makes the weight of it lighter,
and the good feel like it lasts longer
than it ever did before.
I’ve said before
that I want to take care of you—
I meant it.
Not in a moment.
Not temporarily.
But in a way that lasts.
In a way that builds.
In a way that’s patient,
intentional,
and whole.
Everything I do,
I want it to mean something—
to you,
to us,
to what this could become.
I don’t just want to give you everything—
I want to give it to you the right way.
Slowly.
Surely.
With purpose.
Because
with you,
there’s no need to rush—
and somehow,
that feels like everything I’ve needed.
And what we have
feels like the kind of love
that heals us both.
Slow Burn Poetry 