You were my quiet favorite
before life got loud.
A hallway crush,
a name I carried without knowing why,
twenty-five years tucked into memory
like a song I never skipped.
Time took us places
we didn't plan to meet at,
taught us lessons the hard way,
made us who we are
before bringing us back to the same sentence.
I used to pray you'd notice me.
Not for attention,
for recognition.
That you'd see the way I always saw you:
steady, rare,
worth choosing on purpose.
Now the prayers sound different.
Now I pray to be good to you.
To keep your heart light,
your mind at ease,
your laughter frequent.
I pray my presence feels like relief,
like exhale,
like home after a long day.
I want to provide more than promises,
protect more than pride.
I want to learn you in the small ways,
how your mood shifts,
what silence means,
what makes your body relax
and your smile linger.
I want your joy to be intentional,
your pleasure uninterrupted,
your peace non-negotiable.
It's wild how God works.
I prayed for the girl once.
Now I pray over the woman,
the one who chose me back,
the one I don't want temporarily,
the one I plan to cherish loudly and correctly.
You're not just the dream anymore.
You're the answered prayer
I'm responsible for.
And I don't take that lightly.