Anapausis

The art of resting.

I always come with my shoes on,

like some part of me knows I would not be staying.

I worry about the future a lot.

It’s uncertain but I forget it’s already been prepared for me.

So when I loved you, I loved you like a guest.

I folded my feelings into neat corners,

I kept my suitcase by the door and pretended

not to notice how your presence was becoming the safest place I knew.

You spoke of tomorrow and I smiled.

What if your heart was a beautiful city

and I was merely passing through?

Staying long enough to call it home,

before my next flight?

And yet—

every time you remember a small detail about me,

every time you saved me the last piece of bread,

every time you remembered how I take my tea,

or reached for my hand before crossing the street,

every time you sent me a picture of a sunset

because you knew I’d stop to look,

every time you make room for me

inside an ordinary day,

I want to unpack.

I want to leave my charger in your wall socket,

a book face-down on your table,

proof that I planned on coming back.

I want to believe that I am not temporary.

That I could leave my jacket on the chair,

leave my fingerprints on the glasses,

leave a piece of myself somewhere

without fearing it would be swept away.

Maybe that is all any of us want,

not forever,

just the assurance that while we are here,

we belong.

That we are more than visitors.

So now I’m asking you to let our hearts do their part.

Let our hearts remember

that not every hand reaches to leave,

that not every promise is a prelude to absence.

Let us be foolish for a moment.

Let us wander into hope

without demanding a map.

Let us believe

that a future can exist

before it is certain.

The stars do not ask the night

how long it intends to stay.

The flowers do not know when it’s going to rain.

They simply meet what comes

with open arms.

So let us do the same.

Let our hearts tremble if they need to.

Let them ruin our composure a little.

Let them remind us that we’re human.

I know nothing is guaranteed.

I know everything changes.

But while you are here,

I choose you.

I want to keep writing these pages with you.

And if tomorrow asks more of us,

we will answer then.

For now,

let our hearts do their part.

Let’s learn the art of resting.

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After note: Anápausis means rest, repose or relief. It simply means emotional rest.

You can decide to worry or just keep running. Or you can just decide today to let someone love you. Stop anticipating the end. Live in the now!

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