Letters from Xhale the magazine Words that breathe. Stories that Linger,

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I wrote “Last on Her List” from the uneasy edge between being cherished and being postponed, when love arrives in flashes but never quite settles. I wanted to stay with that private sting of realizing you are an afterthought to the person who feels like your whole world, and to see what truths surface when you finally name that hurt.

A solitary Black man sitting alone at a window at night, soft city light falling across him, looking out with quiet patience — not sad, not angry, just still. Waiting. The mood is contemplative and tender, like someone who loves deeply and is simply wondering if they matter. Dark, cinematic, minimalist. No other people. Just him and the silence around him.

Last on Her List

I know your heart belongs
to so many things—
the ones who need you,
the ones you love.

And I understand
that you wear so many names:

the woman who gives
until there’s little left.

But sometimes, my love,
I wonder where I fit.

Because when I’m in your arms,
the world disappears.
Your touch, and maybe your kiss,
the way you hold me—
in those moments,
I feel like I’m everything.

Then the moment ends,
and life calls you back.

Then I’m left wondering
how someone can mean so much to me
while I feel like
the last name on her list.

I don’t need to be first
in every part of your life.

I just want to know
that somewhere in that beautiful heart of yours,
is there a place
that belongs to me.

Or should I remain

In last place

But on your list.

When I wrote this, I kept circling the feeling of being held close just long enough to remember how far away I still am. I wanted to stay with that quiet ache of being almost chosen, the way it rewrites the story you tell yourself about what you’re worth.