A man loved me
—not in passing,
not in parts,
but in that bone-deep,
breath-held,
soul-split kind of way.
But he was shorter than me.
Not just in height—
in presence.
In the way he moved beside my shadow,
like it stretched longer
than he’d been taught to reach.
He loved me anyway.
Said my name like it echoed,
held my gaze like it shook something loose.
But one day—
he disappeared
and came back
—taller.
Not because he had to.
Because he thought he did.
Paid in pain
to pull his spine toward mine.
Surgery—
so he could stand where I stood
and not feel small in the space between us.
And I—
I didn’t ask him to.
But something in me
broke gently,
because I understood.
How many times have I
reshaped myself
for someone else’s sky?
He said,
“I wanted to reach you better.”
I said,
“I wanted you to reach for yourself.”
But he was taller now.
And it hurt to look down
at the price of being seen.
So I kissed his healing
and held his ache
and wondered
if love
is still love
when it must climb
just to touch your face.
J.N. Rose 