You did not arrive like a storm.
You arrived like the hush before it,
when the air leaned in
and the world forgot to breathe.
You are the quiet spark
that turns my bones into lanterns,
each rib a wick,
each heartbeat a small flame.
You are the echo
that knows my name,
the soft thunder
I feel before I hear.
You are winter loosening its grip,
the first drop of thaw
finding its way
to the roots of something
about to be born.
You undid me gently
and taught my edges how to soften.
You pressed your silence into mine
until it became a language
rich with meaning,
and yet unspoken.
And I—
want to be what remains with you:
not held,
but returned to.
The warmth at your neck,
the pause you keep touching
without knowing why.
Hold me there—
not as something owned,
but something chosen,
again,
and again,
again.
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