Somewhere

You arrived like a thought I forgot I was waiting for—

not loud, but certain,

like the space between heartbeats

that still knows how to listen.

We didn’t talk much at first.

Words felt clumsy

in the orbit of what was already being said

by the way your eyes held mine

as if you’d been searching for that shape

in every stranger’s face.

Your laugh didn’t ask for permission—

it just moved through me,

unraveling the caution I’d kept tucked

into the corners of my smile.

You taught me that time doesn’t always move forward—

sometimes it circles back,

folds in on itself

like linen forgotten in a sunlit basket,

smelling faintly of something you can’t name

but remember anyway.

—then came the shift—

It wasn’t the falling that surprised me,

but the weightlessness.

How love didn’t feel like drowning

or flying

but more like walking through water

that parted just enough

to let you keep breathing.

I began noticing the way you hum

when you’re thinking,

or how you trace patterns on your mug

like it holds answers

your mouth is too careful to speak.

You never asked me to change—

but somehow,

without meaning to,

I became softer

in the spaces you touched.

Now, even on days

when we forget how to finish each other’s sentences,

there is still this quiet devotion

in the way you hand me the last slice of toast

without asking if I want it.

Love, in this strange and holy form,

doesn’t always rhyme

or arrive on time—

but it returns,

again and again,

like the tide,

like you.