A Love That Learns

I did not fall—

I arrived,

like dusk when no one notices the light leaving

until everything’s glowing.

You didn’t ask for pieces—

you read maps hidden beneath my ribs,

named constellations I never knew I carried,

touched them like promises,

then waited.

Love didn’t shout.

It hummed through tangled mornings

and tea gone cold beside unread books.

It stirred in my socks, in the unmade bed,

in the breath you didn’t realize I held

until you reminded me to exhale.

You smiled once,

and my walls forgot why they existed.

⸻

But something shifted—

not broken, not wrong,

just that quiet unraveling when

stillness reveals

how far we’ve already wandered.

I saw the weight of your silences

and the music inside them.

I stopped trying to complete you—

you were never a riddle,

just a song waiting to be danced.

So I let go

of the illusion that love must be loud,

let it be soft,

let it be strange,

let it be real.

⸻

And now,

there’s no script.

Only your voice

saying my name like it knows every version I’ve been—

even the ones I forgot.

I don’t belong to you.

I just belong.

With you.

Like fire to warmth,

like sky to its blue.

Like breath.

Like becoming.