Teach me how to love you…

I want you to teach me how to look at you.

Not just glance.

Not just admire.

Not just hunger.

I want to learn the way your shoulders rise when you’re pretending not to feel something.

The way your mouth hesitates before it softens.

The way your silence means three different things depending on the light.

Teach me the geography of your face.

Show me where the fault lines live.

Where the old storms carved their names.

Where the quiet bravery hides.

I don’t want to look at you the way the world does—

quick,

consuming,

certain.

I want to look at you slowly.

Like I’m learning a language that doesn’t rush.

Like every blink is sacred.

Like your existence is not a fact,

but a miracle unfolding.

And while I am learning you,

let me show you how to love me.

Not with fireworks.

Not with promises loud enough to shake the sky.

But with presence.

Look at me when I’m unraveling.

Stay when my voice trembles.

Notice when I pretend I don’t need reassurance.

Love me in the small hours.

In the in-between.

In the moments that don’t look cinematic.

Let me take your hands and place them gently over my heart,

so you can feel what I don’t always know how to say:

I am not asking you to rescue me.

I am asking you to see me.

And if we are brave enough—

you learning my tenderness,

me learning your shadows—

perhaps we will discover that love is not something one teaches the other.

Perhaps it is something we build together,

eye to eye,

pulse to pulse,

two imperfect souls practicing

until looking becomes knowing,

and knowing becomes devotion

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