Not A Love Story, Yet

I haven’t met him yet.

No hand reaching for mine.

No I can’t wait to see you

lighting up my phone.

This is not a love story—

not yet.

But when the right man comes,

not to complete me,

not to rescue me,

but to meet me exactly where I am—

I will not have to wonder

if I belong.

He will not love me in private

and forget me in public.

I will not need to make myself smaller

to fit inside his world.

The right man

won’t be a lesson.

He won’t confuse nearness with closeness

or call restraint loyalty.

He won’t shame me

for needing what I need.

With him,

I won’t rehearse conversations

before speaking.

I won’t minimize my hurt

to keep him comfortable.

I don’t know his face yet.

I don’t know the sound of his laughter,

whether he drinks coffee,

or if he’ll sit beside me

through slasher flicks

and sleepless nights.

But I know how I will feel—

chosen, not convenient.

Held without hesitation.

Certain without proof.

Until him,

I am not holding my breath.

I am not standing still.

I am becoming someone

who knows the difference

between scraps and sustenance,

who understands the distance

between interest and effort.

This is not a love story yet.

It is a boundary.

It is a vow

I am keeping

to myself.

And when the right man comes,

I’ll recognize him

because I won’t have to

ask.