Let Me Be What Stays

Let me be the thing you forget you love until one day your hands find me without thinking, like muscle memory, like prayer. The chipped mug you reach for when the world’s overwhelming you, the one that isn’t the prettiest but still feels like comfort in your grip. The one that’s survived every move, every dropped box, every late night you didn’t know how to quiet your own thoughts. Let me be the bruise you press just to remind yourself it’s still tender, the place you return to, not out of pain, but because you need to know it meant something. Let me be the breath you didn’t realize you’d caged behind your ribs, the aching exhale that escapes in the quiet when no one’s watching, the kind that makes your body tremble a little with the weight of what it’s been carrying. I want to live in the in-between of your sentences, the breath before your voice cracks, the pause before your fingers hit send on the thing you swore you’d never say. Let me be the worn hoodie you pull over your head when grief comes knocking at 2 am, the one that doesn’t fix anything but never asks you to pretend. I want to be the way it clings to your body like memory, like loyalty, like the softest kind of armor. I want to be what your body reaches for when the world becomes too much and your heart forgets how to ask for help. Let me be the exhale that finally lets your shoulders fall, like porch swing chains giving in to gravity after a long, still summer. Let me be the proof that something broken can still feel like comfort. Let me be the thing that feels like home, even when your zip code keeps changing. Let me be the soft southern drawl that lingers in your voice, like sweet tea on a hot afternoon, a reminder of roots that run deeper than any address. When the world pulls you in a thousand directions, let me be the one thing that doesn’t have to move, the place inside you where home never feels like a question.

I want to live in the whisper of crickets and screen doors, the way cicadas carry on like they know every secret you’ve ever whispered to the night. Let me be the slow dance in the middle of the hallway when your favorite song comes on, barefoot and backlit by nothing but the fridge light and a craving you can’t name. I want to be the worn-in spot on the couch where your body just fits, the part of your world that doesn’t ask anything of you except to rest. Let me be the hum of the box fan in August, the one that sat in your grandma’s window like it was guarding the house. I want to be the smell of rain on hot asphalt and the first crack of a thunderstorm that doesn’t scare you, just tells you to settle in. Let me be the watermelon slice you eat leaning over the sink, juice down your chin, hands sticky with the kind of joy you don’t apologize for. The lightning bug you try to catch and never want to let go. Let me be the ink you got on a whim but never regretted, even when the lines blurred and the colors faded. The story you only tell when you’re 3 and half a drinks in and your guard is down. I want to be the mark that grew with you, stretched across time and change, proof that you once believed in something enough to make it permanent.

Let me be Saturday morning cartoons, the soft chaos of color and sound that made the world feel simple for a while. Let me be the worn-out pillow under your knees, the cold cereal bowl on the coffee table, the hush of a house still half-asleep while your little heart pulsed wide open. I want to be the joy that didn’t ask for anything in return, the kind that lived in reruns and theme songs and characters who always came back no matter how the episode ended. Let me be the part of you that still believes in heroes with flaws and villains who might just need a second chance. The part of you that laughed with your whole chest, unguarded. I want to be the background music of your softest memories, the comfort you didn’t know you were being given until you looked back and miss it like oxygen. Let me be the smell of breakfast cooking on a Sunday morning, the scent that drifts down the hallway like a promise, warm and familiar and laced with love. Let me be the soft sizzle of bacon in a cast iron skillet, the rhythm of something steady, something safe. I want to be the way that smell seeps into your clothes, your skin, your memory, the part of you that suddenly feels seven years old again, feet dangling off the kitchen chair, sunlight slanting across the table like a quiet blessing. Let me be the thing that tells your nervous system it’s okay to rest now, that nothing urgent is coming, that this moment was made just to hold you. I want to be your comfort the way that smell is comfort, not loud or demanding, but slow, deep, and impossible to forget.

I want to be the thing you loved before you learned to hide your tenderness, the ninja turtle action figure that’s missing a leg but still rides shotgun in every memory that ever made you feel invincible. The ball cap stained with sun and sweat from summers when your biggest worry was striking out in front of your dad. Let me be the pocket knife you carried everywhere, rough and dull but sharp enough to carve your name into the world and claim it as yours. I want to be the sneakers soaked through from running through sprinklers, the scraped knees and dirt under your nails that no one ever bothered to clean off because they told the story better than words ever could. Let me be the fishing lure rusted from the river where you sat beside your grandfather, learning that love doesn’t always need to be spoken aloud to be true. I want to be the comic book you read until the spine broke, the hero who had to lose everything before he found himself, and maybe, through me, you can remember that hero lives inside you still. Let me be the bike you rode reckless, no hands on the wheel, wind roaring in your ears like freedom was just one pedal away. I want to be the quiet coin jar you swore you’d never spend, the secret proof that hope and dreams are stored in the small things you keep close, even when the world tries to convince you otherwise. Let me be all those pieces you carried silently, the tenderness you hid behind tough skin and quiet strength. Because beneath it all, I want you to know, you were never meant to carry that alone. And I want to be the place where you don’t have to.

Let me be the concert ticket stub folded and tucked into a wallet, worn at the creases from fingers that held it like a lifeline. Let me be the voice of your favorite singer, the one you played so loud in your room you swore no one could hear the way it cracked your heart open just a little. I want to be the first note that sent chills down your spine, the guitar riff you still hum in the car when no one’s listening, the chorus that pulled you through nights when silence felt like it might swallow you whole. Let me be the roar of the crowd that made you feel less alone, the warm crush of bodies swaying under colored lights and the kind of music that taught you how to feel without words. I want to be the worn-out T-shirt from that summer warped tour, stretched and faded, but carrying all the sweat, laughter, and promises you weren’t ready to say out loud. Let me be the playlist you never skip, the one that knows every secret you tried to bury beneath your tough skin. Let me be the giddy feeling that flooded your chest when you shook the hand of your idol, the way your heart stuttered like it couldn’t believe your body was close enough to touch someone who’d once saved you through a speaker. Let me be the nervous smile you couldn’t wipe off your face for hours after, the way you replayed that moment on a loop like your mind didn’t trust it was real. I want to be the warmth in your palms from that touch, the spark of wonder that lit up your eyes like stage lights, proof that something sacred had passed between you and the one who unknowingly gave your pain a voice. I want to be the echo of that moment, the invisible autograph pressed into your memory, not just because you admired them, but because, for a second, it felt like they saw you, too. I want to be the song you wish you could sing back to the world to tell it you’re still here, still fighting, still aching to be known. Because even when the music stopped and the crowd disappeared, I want you to remember that voice, that feeling, that moment when you let yourself be vulnerable, and know it was always yours. And let me be the one who reminds you that it can be yours again.

Let me be the screen door in July, always creaking open before you even touch it, like it knew you were coming all along. Let me be the front porch swing at your grandmother’s house, the one that holds every version of you, from scraped knees to broken hearts. Let me be the condensation on your sweet tea glass, dripping down your hand like time itself can’t stay still in the Bama heat. Let me be the dirt road shortcut you only take when you need time to think, the one lined with wildflowers and ghosts you never named out loud. Let me be the scent of honeysuckle in the air, so familiar you stop breathing just to remember what memory it carries. Let me be the jar of lightning bugs on your childhood windowsill, glowing soft beside your bed, teaching you that even wild things can make light in the dark. Let me be the VHS tape with the fuzzy static in all the right places, where you rewound and replayed the same five minutes because something in it felt like magic.

Let me be the first song your soul hums when silence becomes unbearable, when the stillness presses against your chest and your thoughts start echoing louder than you can hold. Let me be the melody you can’t trace back to a moment, only to a feeling, like the scent of someone long gone or the weight of a dream that woke you up crying. I want to be the quiet thread stitched through your every routine, the ghost of comfort that follows you from room to room, unnoticed but never absent. The flick of your wrist when you reach for the light switch in the dark, how you always know exactly where it is, even when you’re half-asleep and half-broken. Let me be that knowing. That instinct. That little bit of light you never have to search for. Let me be the peeling label on the bottle you’ve nursed through a thousand nights, worn from the grip of your fingers and the way you hold on like it might remember what you’re trying to forget. The scar you never talk about, the one that came from something stupid but somehow feels holy now. Let me be the reason your mouth curves into a smile when no one’s watching, the kind of smile that isn’t just survival, but real happiness. A quiet, sacred kind of joy that says, “I’m still here.” I want to be that. I want to be what stays when everything else leaves. Let me be the porch light you forgot you left on, the one that's always glowing, quiet and constant, just in case you come home one night without meaning to.

I want to be the moment your body finally surrenders, the fragile breath just before sleep takes you under, the one where your mind softens its grip and the ghosts finally grow quiet. Let me be the space between your last waking thought and your first dream, the hush where nothing aches, not even the things that usually do. I don’t want to be the hero or the fix or the answer. I want to be the lull, the mercy, the unspoken yes that rests its forehead against yours and simply stays. Let me be the scent that lives in your pillow, the one you can’t name but still breathe deeper when you catch it, like some part of your body knows it’s safe here. Let me be the wrinkle in the blanket you run your fingers over when you can’t sleep, tracing it like a lifeline, like a prayer. I want to be the thing that steadies you without needing credit, the way your hand slows on the steering wheel as you near home, or the shaft of sunlight that falls across your chest just right in the early morning, touching you like something holy. Let me be the favorite band t-shirt you’ve worn and washed so many times the letters have faded, growing thin in places, threadbare where your heart beats the loudest. I want to be the familiar ache that doesn’t hurt anymore, just reminds you that you’ve lived. That you’re still living. Let me be the quiet comfort your soul returns to without even realizing it’s been searching. Let me be the sigh that escapes your lips when you forget to guard them, the one that sounds like surrender, or maybe relief.

I don’t want to be fireworks… loud, fleeting, beautiful only for a moment before the sky swallows them whole. I don’t want to be thunder, all noise and no staying power, the kind of love that leaves your ears ringing but your hands still empty, leaving nothing behind but ash and apology. I want to be quieter than that. Truer than that. I want to be the match you never have to strike because I’ve already caught fire inside the places you thought would stay cold forever. Let me be the warmth that hums in your walls long after the storm has passed, the light tucked into forgotten corners, the steady glow that never demands to be seen, only felt. I want to be the quiet presence that turns the ache in your chest into something softer, something survivable. The kind of love that doesn’t knock the wind out of you but teaches you how to breathe again. Let me be the way you recognize yourself when everything else has changed, the quiet pull in your bones that says, “You’re safe here. You’re known here.” Let me be the moment it clicks that you are already home, even if you’re still trying to find the door.

Let me be the place where you don’t have to pretend you’re fine. Let me be the reason you stop bracing for goodbye.

Let me be what stays.