It isn’t the blaze of lightning

or the thunderous shout of heaven.

It’s quieter,

a lantern in the ribs

that flares when your eyes pause

and don’t skim,

but settle.

I thought I was all hidden corners,

a house with rooms

I had locked from myself,

yet somehow you move through them

without a key,

touching the furniture gently,

dusting off my long-forgotten names.

There is a terror to it.

Being seen without disguise,

being read without stammer,

as if the stories I buried

were only waiting for your voice

to coax them out.

And yet,

more tender than fear

is the warmth:

the relief of not performing,

the grace of an unfinished sentence

you still understand.

To be known is not to be solved,

but to be carried.

My jagged edges

resting, finally,

in your open palms.