We Forgot

You said my name like it had a rhythm,

like the syllables might spark if struck right.

We were just standing in line for coffee,

but the air around us

started acting like music.

Your laugh made gravity skip—

like the rules got rewritten

because we dared to look at each other too long.

The street was just asphalt.

People walked by with purpose,

bags in hand, phones in ears,

but you—

you pulled me into something sideways,

something unscripted.

Your hand met mine like a question

you already knew the answer to.

Not an invitation—

more like a dare

wrapped in melody.

And I moved.

Not well, not with grace,

but like a soul unzipping its coat

in the middle of a snowstorm,

saying: Here. Take it.

All of it.

—And then the turn—

It wasn’t the music.

There wasn’t any.

It was your breath syncing with mine,

your eyes locked like they’d forgotten

everything that came before.

It was ridiculous.

It was surreal.

It was beautiful in that fragile, fleeting way

only moments without plans can be.

The city didn’t stop—

but for a second,

we did.

And in that pause,

the whole world

spun different.

Not faster, not slower,

but truer.

And now—

even in the quiet,

even on days we don’t move at all,

I can feel the rhythm

we invented

when the coffee was cold

and your fingers were warm.