I brought her a whole sack of onions because where
I come from you only give flowers to the “departed.”
I thought onions were better. They last longer,
They fight hunger, they make you cry in a way that
Proves you’re truly alive.

But she laughed and said that I love her wrong.
That I’m too practical, that I’m too survival-mode,
Too “refugee logic” for romance.

I fixed her door at 3:00 AM. because she said she feels
Emotionally unsafe. Where I’m from, men don’t write
Poems for safety. We tighten the hinges and add three
Extra locks and call it love…

She’s the girl who touches my arm as if the world is harmless.
She teaches me affection the way you teach someone
A new dance: slowly, patiently, with jokes in between
So I don’t panic.

Now I’m learning her dialect:
How to say “I care”
Without using a toolbox,
How to say “You matter”
Without stocking the pantry,
How to say “I’m here”
Without standing guard like a soldier at the border.

She’s the one.
She makes me forget about the mouth of
A home that coughed me out for a moment.
And maybe that’s the secret:
Her humor softens my edges,
My practicality steadies her storms,
And together, we translate each other into something
That feels like home, even when onions are still
Rolling around the kitchen floor.

 

 

 

 

Photo by Namukolo Siyumbwa on Unsplash