The Quiet Things We Call Forever

You didn’t arrive with thunder.

No sky split open when you walked in.

But something inside me shifted

like the hush that comes before a prayer,

or the stillness of snow

falling where no one is watching.

I had been all wildfire and wishbones,

a chaos of want with no direction,

but you were rain on a tired roof,

you were peace in a room that forgot it could be quiet.

With you, I learned that love

is not a parade of grand gestures.

It is the steady return of morning,

the way your hand finds mine

without asking.

You did not try to fix me.

You simply stayed,

until the broken things

started blooming on their own.

I do not need fireworks.

I need the way you breathe beside me,

the softness in your voice

when the world feels too loud.

I need the way you say my name

like it means something sacred.

So here is everything—

my fears, my flaws, my fragile hope

that you might want to stay

through the dull days

and the messy middles.

Because love like this

does not knock down doors.

It plants roots.

It grows slow.

And it stays.