The Gravity of Love

The weight of a moment is heavier than time—

like rain that lingers in the air before it falls,

caught between staying and letting go.

I have felt that pause, that trembling edge,

the space where breath holds itself

and the world waits for what comes next.

Somewhere, roots press deeper into the earth,

seeking the pulse of something older than longing.

Somewhere, the sky folds itself into dusk,

color bleeding into color,

the way memory stains the edges of dreams.

But here—here, in the quiet pull of you,

there is no need to measure distance.

No need to ask whether the river

knows the shape of its own hands

as it carves its way home.

And here it turns—

a shift like the tide exhaling,

like gravity deciding.

Because love is not the grasping,

not the desperate reach to own a thing that drifts.

It is the staying.

The hands open, the arms still wide,

even as the wind carries what it must.

And if the world should change around us,

if time itself unwinds—

then let me be the echo that lingers,

the weight that stays,

the moment before the fall.