When Every Star

Your eyes say it before anything else—

a quiet invitation wrapped in dusk,

a hush where even time stumbles,

spilling seconds like wine between us.

The air thickens, not with words,

but with something softer,

like silk just before it slides

off bare shoulders.

And I—

unready, yet wanting nothing more—

tilt forward, as if gravity rewrote its law

to pull me not down,

but to you.

It isn’t about the kiss—

not really.

It’s about how the distance closes,

like pages folding in a well-worn book

we both remember writing,

though neither of us can recall when.

But then—

something shifts.

Not a pause,

but a realization.

This moment,

this beautiful ache,

isn’t borrowed or built from longing.

It’s ours.

Not because we waited,

not even because we found each other—

but because we chose to be found.

Now, even the silence between our breaths

feels symphonic.

And when your lips meet mine,

it’s less of a collision

and more of a remembering—

of every version of us

that ever dared to love this deeply.