Gravity

I knew it was you when the silence bent

just slightly—

not loud, not grand,

but as if the air remembered

how we once breathed it together.

There’s a strange rhythm to longing,

like the moon stalling mid-tide,

or the ache of an unfinished song

hovering on the edge of a name

you almost say aloud.

We built our closeness

not with hands,

but with the hush between seconds—

that space where your laugh lingers

after you’ve gone,

where the chair still leans

the way you sat in it.

I never asked for magic,

yet there you were—

eyes speaking in codes I already knew,

a glance that folded time in half,

moments unwinding like thread

we forgot we were tied to.

Then came the shift.

Not a falling,

but a tilt—

the stars leaned differently that night.

My pulse stopped echoing

what the world expected

and started singing you.

I don’t chase fate.

But I do follow footprints

I swear you didn’t leave,

the warmth on my shoulder

when no one’s there,

the pull toward songs I’ve never heard

but somehow hum along to.

And maybe this is it—

the kind of closeness

that doesn’t need touching.

Just knowing.

Just sensing.

Just staying aligned

through every scatter,

every orbit,

every quiet

return.