Gravity

First light, you tilt your head,

asking if I remember the dream—

the one where the hallway stretched

like taffy, and we ran,

barefoot, laughing,

through rooms that didn’t exist

yesterday.

You always find the seams in reality,

fingers tracing invisible lines

between what is and what could be—

like the way your eyes linger on the dust

dancing in the sunbeam,

insisting it’s a constellation

just for us.

Some mornings, love feels like a coin

spun on the edge—

sometimes heads, sometimes tails,

sometimes a blur,

and I wonder if the universe

ever gets dizzy

watching us orbit each other,

close, then far,

then close again.

We talk in riddles,

inventing languages with our hands,

your laugh a secret code

that unlocks something in my chest—

and I realize,

it’s not the grand declarations

or the fireworks at midnight,

but the way you fold your socks,

the way you pause before you speak,

that roots me here.

—And then, a shift—

the world outside our window

leans in, curious,

as if it, too, wants to know

how two people can hold so much

in the space between

heartbeat and breath.

We are both the question and the answer,

the echo and the call,

imperfect, unfinished,

yet somehow—

enough.

Let’s stay here,

in the hush between stories,

where even silence

feels like a promise.