The Ache

I felt you before I saw you—

a ripple inside a moment

too quiet to explain.

You didn’t arrive with thunder.

You arrived with presence,

like the hush just before the lights go down,

where breath knows it’s not alone.

We weren’t perfect,

but we were rare.

Somehow both chaos and calm

coiled into a single look

across a too-long room.

We laughed with the kind of honesty

that frightens people

who haven’t tasted

the sharp edge of joy.

Your voice—

not melodic, but magnetic—

spoke in shapes that fit

my disjointed thoughts.

And then,

when the silence stretched too long,

when your hands were no longer mirrors,

I felt everything louder.

Every missed word.

Every paused reply.

Even the light

seemed harsher in the corners.

But I never ran.

Not from the ache.

Not from the echo

of what we had.

Because there is something

almost holy

about feeling

so much

you can barely stand it—

a reminder that love,

real love,

never arrives painless,

but always

arrives.