I Get to Call You Home
Read more poetry by Britt Wolfe
Of all the places I’ve wandered,
you are the only one that ever felt like arrival.
The only one that didn’t ask me to shrink
to fit the doorway.
With you, even silence hums.
Even the ordinary glows—
a cup left half-empty,
your laugh in another room,
the soft exhale of night pressing against the window.
You are not my escape.
You are the place I return to
when the world has taken too much.
The gravity I choose
every single day.
Loving you is the easiest geography—
I could find my way back to your hands
blindfolded, barefoot,
through any storm.
You are the stillness that steadies the spinning.
The reason my heart,
after all its battles,
still believes in gentleness.
I have known passion that burned out
and comfort that never warmed me,
but this—
this is something quieter,
truer.
The miracle of being known
and not flinched from.
Sometimes I look at you
and think of every version of myself
that had to survive
so I could stand here now—
in this softness,
in this knowing,
in this love that feels like rest.
And I whisper a thank-you
to whatever force,
whatever fragile chance,
placed me here,
in the circle of your arms,
where I am more myself
than I have ever been.
Because out of everything I’ve ever wanted,
every dream, every wild ache—
the greatest grace of my life
is that I get to call you home.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe:
