I mistook speed for certainty,
mistook fire for warmth.
I ran toward love
as if arriving first
meant I would be chosen.

I spoke before listening,
touched before asking,
gave everything
without learning how to hold.

In my hurry,
I bruised the fragile hours,
stepped on feelings
still finding their names.
Some wounds were mine.
Some I left behind.

They never saw the quiet part of me,
the hands that tremble when they care,
the heart that softens in silence,
the gentleness waiting
for time I never allowed.

I was not careless.
I was afraid of being slow
and left.

Now I am learning
that love does not flee,
that tenderness arrives
only when I stay.

If love comes again,
I will walk.
I will listen.
I will let my gentle heart
be seen
before it breaks.