Love Is Not Comfort

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Love is not comfort.

It does not arrive with slippers

or ask where you’d like to sit.

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Love shows up in overalls,

boots dusted with yesterday’s collapse,

carrying a blueprint drawn in pencil

because it knows revisions are inevitable.

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Love is construction.

It measures you in vulnerable inches,

asks where the foundation cracked

long before it ever met you.

It hands you a helmet

and says,

“This may be loud.”

There is drilling

into stubborn silence.

There is the demolition

of rooms you secretly hated

but learned to decorate.

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Love does not apologize for the noise.

It welds trust

spark by spark,

tiny suns bursting

between two trembling metals.

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Some days, nothing looks different.

Just scaffolding.

Just waiting.

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Just the slow grammar of becoming.

Other days,

a window appears

where there was once only wall,

and light walks in

like it always belonged there.

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Love is not comfort.

Comfort is the finished house.

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Love

is the hammer

still warm

in your hand.

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