When the Clock

I used to count the freckles on your shoulder like stars

that promised something bigger than time.

We weren’t saving seconds—

we spent them like drunk poets with a match.

Sleep was a rumor.

And love—

it was more like gravity back then,

falling just felt like moving closer.

You wore your past like a second skin.

Not ashamed, not explaining,

just there—

cracked in places,

but warm when I held it.

Some nights,

you talked about death

like it was an ex you almost married,

and I listened like it could save us.

But here’s the shift—

the breath before the storm resets.

I woke up and your laugh

had changed pitch.

It wasn’t sad—

just less reckless.

You stopped dancing in the kitchen

like the world needed your rhythm.

And I—

I started folding my dreams smaller,

like they had to fit in a drawer

next to overdue bills and to-do lists.

That’s when I knew.

We weren’t growing old—

we were growing in.

Into each other,

into silence that didn’t ache.

Into questions without sharp edges,

into skin that learned to sag without apology.

It’s not tragedy—

not really.

It’s just the way stories soften

when you’ve lived past the climax.

And maybe love isn’t loud forever.

Maybe it’s a shoulder you don’t have to earn anymore,

or a look across a room that doesn’t ask,

it answers.

Maybe it’s the way your hand

still finds mine in sleep

like a pact that never needed signing.