And when that one for me will finally come, when she holds my hands — with their rough palms and broken lines — and asks me what I did while waiting for her.
I will not hide my past;
how I fed on leftover affection, while working as a carpenter, building homes to people I will never be part of.
I will not hide how I carried pounds of lies on my back, while hoping the structure I was building would host me at the end.
I will not hide that I part-timed in falling floors down, while nailing roofs for the rooms of hearts I will never have a chance to touch the pillow at night.
I will not hide the broken bones I got, the scars from the rough touch of time, and burnt from the risks I took.
I will not hide my palms, their broken lines of hope; I will not hide myself.
I will not leave it a secret that I loved some other people before her —
because I know, she would love me the same;
as she also did the same.
