The Way

It began with the wind curling through the branches,

like fingers searching for something lost—

not frantic,

just curious.

I watched as morning peeled itself from the sky,

slow, deliberate,

like it knew we’d both need time

to remember how to begin.

There’s a rhythm to the world

that doesn’t ask for permission—

just moves,

heartbeat to heartbeat,

leaf to leaf,

your voice folded somewhere between

my thoughts and the sound of water

licking the edge of a forgotten dock.

And I think—no, I feel—

some things were stitched together

before they knew they’d meet.

Then comes the turn—

not a crash, but a hush,

the way thunder holds its breath

before it speaks.

Because love isn’t a finding,

not really.

It’s a recognition.

It’s the pause that makes room for

another breath beside your own,

the quiet “me too” in the space between words,

when no one’s talking.

And maybe we’ve met a hundred times before—

as stars,

or tides,

or lines in a stranger’s palm.

Or maybe just now.

Maybe just once is enough

when it fits like this.