I Made Room For You

I made myself small. To fit in the square foot of space the world permitted me, when I deserved a galaxy worth of space to hold my secrets within.

I made myself small. I allowed the world to tell me my place and always accommodated to it.

I made myself small. This was my limitation to my interactions with the potentiality of the world and everything that surrounded me.

I made myself small. I had no room for anything or anyone. I had packed the space in my head from floor to ceiling, wall to wall. Not even the space of a single breath of air was not occupied.

I made myself small. And I was okay with it.

And then I met you. I had no space for you in my world, you were not meant to be permanent. Another person passing by like a jellyfish drifting along in the ocean. I wanted you to be permanent, but no one had ever been, so I never left space for someone else to fill. No empty drawer in the dresser, no empty shelf in the closet, and not even a box worth of space in the attic.

Things had always been one way. No change, nothing new. I was content and came to expect this same-old, same-old routine. Change became panicking and stressful.

You made room. You came in and began making space for yourself, I of course panicked.

You made room. You emptied a drawer. You emptied a shelf. You cleared the whole damn attic. You made room. You became permanent. And while the concept scared me, it comforted me. It provided me a sense that maybe I wasn’t alone in the world. That maybe after everything, it was okay to make room for you in the end. You planted your roots and they grew intertwined with mine. You somehow twisted your way to my heart and showed me that you didn't really need much room as long as you were close to me.

You made room. I made room. We cleared the clutter of insecurity and pain to make room for us. And it turns out, that’s all I ever needed. You. Me. Us.