Gravity in Your Fingertips

You carry constellations in the pockets of your hands.

planets on your knuckles, tides that answer your commands.

My doubts are tiny satellites that think they’re free to drift—

until you touch my shoulder and I feel the whole world shift.

༻༺

Your fingers are a language that the compass understands.

turning every panicked spin into a map of solid lands.

You trace a line along my arm, and oceans change their mind;

The clocks forget their urgency, and the ceiling grows more kind.

༻༺

You don’t arrive like thunderbolts or neon billboard signs;

You’re more the quiet physics in the way a life aligns.

A single brush against my wrist, a laugh that half-derails—

And suddenly my scattered thoughts fall neatly into trails.

༻༺

When I am loose confetti in the wind, I cannot read.

a paper town of half-built roads and never-finished need,

you reach out just a little bit—no sermon, no big scripts—

And every runaway piece of me comes back to fingertips.

༻༺

I orbit strange anxieties, a junkyard kind of sky.

Old promises and failed attempts still circling too high.

But you’re the law I can’t escape, the pull that doesn’t bruise,

a gravity that doesn’t cage, just helps me choose my shoes.

༻༺

If love were only fireworks, I’d have burned out long ago;

Your love is more like magnet dust that learns which way to go.

It’s mugs and keys and grocery lists, it’s “text me when you land.”

It’s galaxies made sensible by how you hold my hand.

༻༺

So if the day unthreads my name and turns me to a mist,

Remind me I have weight again—come anchor me with this:

no chains, no vows in marble ink, no lock that never slips,

Just you, the room, a quiet pull, and gravity in your fingertips.