The Edge of Falling

He lets me pick the playlist—

sings along, out of tune but perfect,

like he’s always known

the chorus of my heart.

He brings me the candy I love,

knows the kind I hide in drawers,

the kind that melts slowly,

like the days do when I’m with him.

He offers me his coat

like it’s the most natural thing—

like my comfort is worth

his own warmth.

And maybe that’s what’s so terrifying—

not the way he looks at me,

but the way I look back

and see everything I could lose.

They call it falling in love,

as if love is a cliff,

and I’m the cartoon coyote

suspended mid-air,

already over the edge

but not yet falling—

still hoping the laws of gravity

might forget me.

But his voice sings my songs,

his hands find mine without asking,

and I wonder

if this kind of falling

could end in flight

instead of a splat.