The Way

It began like most things do—

a glance held too long,

a question that meant more

than it let on.

You asked me where I’d been

like you already knew the answer

but needed to hear it in my voice.

There was something

about the way your hands hovered

just short of mine,

as if they were fluent in restraint,

but aching for translation.

And still, we waited—

not out of fear, but wonder.

The streetlight blinked above us

like a tired eye

trying to stay awake through our story.

Your laugh tripped

over its own rhythm,

a little crooked,

but better for it.

You told me time was a hallway

you never wanted to walk alone.

I said I’d never liked clocks anyway,

too loud with their endings.

One night, the sky folded inward,

stars spilling like marbles

across a black floor.

You said my name like

it was a doorway—

and I stepped through.

That was when I learned:

love isn’t always fireworks—

sometimes it’s a quiet nudge

toward your better self,

a mirror that doesn’t lie

but still forgives the fog.

You never needed to be perfect.

You just needed to stay

when the walls leaned in,

when the roof groaned under memory,

when I forgot

how to be soft.

I talk too much when I’m nervous.

You listen like it’s the only language

you’ve ever really wanted to learn.

And maybe that’s why

your absence never makes sense.

Even in dreams,

you always arrive mid-sentence,

asking something I don’t quite catch,

but understand completely.