Vesting

You never said forever.

You said, give it time.

You kept a toothbrush at my place somewhere around month nine.

I learned not to ask too early.

You learned exactly what I'd take.

Nothing happened all at once.

Nothing ever had to break.

You

gave me just enough to make leaving feel

expensive.

Four years.

One year cliff.

Nothing in my hands until I'd proven I could live with it.

Then a little every month.

A little more

if I stayed. I thought that meant you were learning how to

love me. Maybe that was just the way you gave.

At first I had no drawer there.

Then the left side of your bed.

Then a key you didn't mention,

just left it there instead.

You met my friends in winter.

Met my mother late that spring.

Every ordinary milestone felt like I'd been granted something.

And every time I almost left,

something finally came through.

Four years. One year cliff.

Nothing in my hands until I'd proven I could live with it.

Then a little every month.

A little more if I stayed.

I thought that meant you were learning how to love me.

Maybe that was just the way you gave.

I knew the schedule.

I knew what came next.

Year two:

more weekends.

Year three:

your family.

Year four— I stopped asking.

There was never any promise

you could point to and deny.

You just made the future visible in increments of time.

And I mistook accumulation

for a thing becoming mine.

Four years. One year cliff.

I stayed

past the part

where leaving would have made more sense.

Kept collecting little pieces

like eventually they'd make

something I could hold without you having to remain.

I thought patience was devotion.

I thought staying made it safe.

Some things

come to you slowly.

Some things never

vest.