Evening Falls

The first thing you said was, “Don’t look for signs—just feel.”

And that was it—like an old song heard sideways

from a passing car,

you rewrote my silence.

We weren’t searching for portals,

but stumbled into one anyway—

between a flicker of streetlight and your fingertips

tracing galaxies on my wrist.

Some things are more magic

when they forget they are.

The world bent in small ways:

time spilled its tea,

your laugh lived longer in the air

than the wind had planned.

I think the moon tilted slightly

to listen.

We were not perfect—thank god.

Your socks never matched,

my metaphors wandered off mid-sentence.

But when your hand fit mine

like it had been waiting

through five different lifetimes—

I knew we’d met before.

Then—

A moment cracked open—

not loud, but deliberate,

like the pause between thunder

and the knowing.

You turned,

and the city blurred behind you,

and I swear,

every unfinished poem in me

stood up and remembered how to walk.

So no, this isn’t a fairy tale.

We fight about coffee spoons

and forget what we meant to say

when we storm out of rooms

that no longer feel like prisons.

But in the quietest hours—

when the clock folds its hands in apology,

and the sky peels back a little—

we are both just beginning.

Still choosing.

Still translating the impossible

into each other.