Nothing Less Than Sincere

I loved you in ways
I could not always hide.

I remembered the things you said
without asking myself to.
I noticed when your voice changed.
I wondered whether you got home safely,
whether you had eaten,
whether your day had been hard on you.

You occupied parts of my day
that I did not plan to give away.

And perhaps that was obvious.

Perhaps you could tell
by the way I looked for you,
by the way I stayed present
even when there was nothing important
left to say.

I did not love you halfway.

I did not know how to care for you
without letting it reach
the smallest parts of my life.

But I never wanted my love
to become something you had to carry.

I did not give it to you
so you would owe me anything.
I did not care for you
so you would choose me
out of guilt.

I only wanted you to know
that you mattered to me.

That there was someone
who saw you in ordinary moments
and still found you worth thinking about.

Maybe I gave too much of myself
to a feeling I could not name safely.

Maybe I made my heart visible
before I knew whether there was room for it
in yours.

But I cannot regret
the sincerity of what I felt.

Because every tenderness I gave you
was real.

And whatever it was to you,
to me,
it was nothing less than sincere.