Again

She says, we will be okay,

as if history were a shelter

and not a storm she has learned

to brace herself against 

She says, we’ve been here before,

as though repetition 

were proof of endurance

and not a map of wounds

she has memorized too well 

There is a tremor in her hope—

small, almost polite—

the kind that comes 

from loving someone

who keeps falling

through the same doorway 

Her heart speaks in loyalty,

in the language of vows

that do not dissolve

just because a body stumbles 

Her mind speaks in caution,

in the quiet arithmetic

of relapse and return 

She stands between them,

holding both truths

like uneven weights:

the desire to believe

and the need to survive 

What do you do

when the person you love

is both the home

and the hazard?

What do you do

when the wagon rolls away again

and you are left deciding

whether to chase it

or stay still enough

to keep yourself whole?

Maybe this is what she means

when she says we will be okay:

not that the road is safe,

not that the fall won’t happen again,

but that she has learned

how to walk beside him

without losing herself

to the dust he kicks up 

Maybe okay

is not a promise—

but a hope she refuses

to abandon 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

September 1, 2026