I want to be honest with you from the start.
I can love you. And I can love you well.

I can show up in the middle of the night when the silence feels too sharp.
I can kiss you like you’re something I know I can’t keep. I can listen like I’ve been waiting to hear your story all my life. I can hold your face in my hands and mean it when I say, you’re not too much. You’re just right.

But I won’t stay.
Not because I don’t care. Not because you’ll do anything wrong.
But because I was never built to stay.
There’s something in me, maybe damage, maybe instinct, that keeps a bag packed even when I’ve unpacked my things.

I’ve learned how to love in moments, not lifetimes.
To make a home out of a night. To leave before I’m left.
To give everything, quickly, because I know I won’t be around to give it slowly.

I can be the warmth that gets you through a hard season.
The laugh you didn’t know you needed. The soft place you didn’t expect to land.
But I won’t be the person you build your future on.
I won’t be the name in your emergency contact list.

You deserve someone who’s dependable. Someone who makes plans and keeps them.
Someone who doesn’t flinch at permanence.
That person isn’t me.

But if you can stand the cold that follows, I can give you fire, for a little while.
Not the kind that lasts, but the kind that glows hot, burns bright, and for one honest moment, feels like forever.

So no, I can’t keep you safe.
But I can keep you warm.