What Was Enough

We sat at a small table by the window,

two cups and your hand on the wood,

and I knew in that moment

how little I needed—

no cake, no fuss,

just this, just us,

just the way you said my name

like you meant it,

like it wasn't a game,

like you'd spent it,

your kindness, on me,

and I was finally free

to believe that small was enough,

that nothing fancy or rough

was required, that simple

was all I could grip while

my heart finally settled,

and the napkin was petal-

thin, stained with coffee,

and I kept it because

I needed proof that toffee-

colored love had no cause

to be grand, that it lived

in the small things I lived

for after—the stain,

the napkin, the plain

truth of being held

by someone who spelled

out my worth in small ways.