Cartography

I wake to the sound of your breathing—

steady, like the tide marking time

against the shore of my shoulder,

your hand draped across my back

as if you’re mapping continents

only you can see.

We move through mornings

with mismatched socks and coffee spoons,

your laughter spilling over the rim

of my favorite mug.

You say my name like it’s a secret

only the two of us remember,

a password to a door

that doesn’t exist for anyone else.

Sometimes, I catch you staring out the window

as if you’re watching a memory

unfold in slow motion—

your eyes tracing the outline

of a day we haven’t lived yet.

I want to ask what you see,

but instead, I just sit beside you,

letting the silence fill with possibilities.

There’s a shift—

like the moment the lights flicker

before a storm,

or the hush that falls

before a song begins.

I realize love isn’t a question

that needs answering,

but a language we invent

each time we touch,

each time we forgive,

each time we choose to stay.

We are not perfect—

we trip over words,

lose ourselves in the tangle

of old stories and new fears.

But in the quiet aftermath,

you reach for my hand,

and I remember:

we are still writing this map,

charting new territories

with every breath.

Let’s keep moving—

even if the roads are unmarked,

even if the stars refuse to guide us.

I’ll follow the sound of your breathing,

the compass of your laughter,

the promise in your eyes

that this, whatever it is,

is worth discovering.