And so I pray (for RSP).
You came like a whisper through a half-shut door.
I felt I had met your ache somewhere before.
The room did not move but my soul did.
Two strangers, one truth, nothing hid.
You watched the exits even as you smiled.
I watched your heart retreat like a terrified child.
Your words were careful, your eyes were armed.
I knew you feared the very thing that warmed.
Something older than us stood in that air.
Not just chemistry, but a silent prayer.
Bowlby would have called it an ancient design.
Anxious thread, avoidant seam, tangled line.
You flinched when I leaned too close to see.
I flinched at the thought that you might flee.
Still, there was a gravity I could not deny.
As if God had folded both our wounds into one sky.
I felt you studying every crack in your own shield.
I felt myself kneel on that uncharted field.
This was more than my familiar ache.
It was a covenant trembling, about to break.
You said you had learned to live without need.
I said my heart still remembers how to bleed.
Your silence pressed on me like a storm.
But you were the first thunder that felt warm.
I am the one who reaches, I know.
You are the one who trains herself to let go.
Yet under the push and pull, I sensed a thread.
A place where both our ghosts had once bled.
So we stepped into the middle ground, shaking.
Two attachment styles, endlessly breaking.
I reached slower, tried to breathe between.
You stayed longer, softer, almost seen.
You let me trace the outlines of your doubt.
I let you say “too much” without walking out.
We stumbled into tiny moments of repair.
Short bridges built over caverns of despair.
I saw your eyes linger then quickly hide.
I learned to stay present without stepping inside.
You were afraid I would drown you in my plea.
I was afraid you would disappear from me.
My glaucoma shadows deepened by the day.
But with you, a different darkness fell away.
I am losing sight, not vision of your pain.
If anything, the blur makes your soul more plain.
You worry I will need you more than you can bear.
I worry you will carry shame that was never yours to wear.
So I hold my need gently, like a fragile cup.
And I place it down each time you brace or tense up.
There are nights the terror swallows us both whole.
You retreat into silence, I flood with soul.
Yet even then, I feel slow progress in our scars.
Two frightened children learning to name their stars.
You text back quicker than you used to do.
You let a compliment rest without arguing it through.
You say “I’m scared” instead of walking away.
I say “I hear you” instead of demanding you stay.
Some days you lean your head on my chest and breathe.
I tremble inside but keep my arms like a gentle sheath.
Not a cage, not a claim on your skin.
Just a quiet place where your terror can thin.
Still, the war returns without warning or sound.
You vanish, I spiral, old patterns unbound.
Yet now I do not chase you as before.
I light a candle, leave an unlocked door.
My prayer has changed its shape over time.
From “never leave” to “may she someday feel safe as mine.”
Not mine in possession, not mine as a right.
Mine as a soul unafraid of her own light.
I tell myself, “If she heals and walks away.
Let it be with less armor than yesterday.”
Your freedom is not my enemy or loss.
Your wholeness is worth any personal cost.
I do not want to bind you to my failing eyes.
Or make my blindness into a chain of disguised ties.
I will not turn my illness into a hook.
I would rather walk alone than have you feel mistook.
So I stand in this half-dark, resolute.
A man, not a martyr, still tender, still astute.
Working on my fractures, owning what is mine.
While I pray your heart finds a gentler design.
I see small cracks forming in your wall.
Less concrete, more curtain, not so tall.
You share childhood stories in a shaking voice.
You let me witness that you never had a choice.
You say you are tired of always having to run.
I say I am learning to stand without calling you “the one.”
Still, I cannot lie — my love for you is fierce.
But I will not let it wound where you are still pierced.
If we walk closer, let it be because you can breathe.
Not because my desperation will not leave.
If we remain friends, I will honor that path.
I will not weaponize my longing or my wrath.
What I want most is to see you rest.
To watch you trust your own worth, your own chest.
To see your shoulders drop without looking for the door.
To feel you know, in your bones, you are not a chore.
If in that resting, you find space for me.
I will receive it as grace, not guarantee.
I will meet you there with a steady, softened heart.
Ready to learn, to listen, to restart.
Until then, I keep this plea quiet but clear.
Not to own you, but to draw your soul near.
May my constancy never feel like a cage.
Only a lantern held at the edge of your stage.
I am DC Gunnersen, wrestling with my sight.
But in this dimness, I have learned a different light.
I pray more for your healing than my claim.
If God answers, let it be you free of shame.
And if, by mercy, our paths entwine more tight.
Let it be two warriors laying down the fight.
Not rescue, not savior, not dramatic art.
Just a woman and a man, choosing to heal heart to heart.
If not, RSP, may this still reach your hidden shore.
A soft knock, not a pounding at your door.
Know this: I loved you as best a broken man can see.
And I trusted you to choose what makes you free.

…

DCG