When the Light

You looked at me like gravity didn’t apply—

like the floor could give out and we’d still land softly,

somewhere between a sigh and a second chance.

We were never textbook,

more like side notes in the margin

where the best stories hide—

written in shorthand,

decoded only by those who feel more than they explain.

You laughed with your whole body,

like you’d swallowed sunlight and didn’t mind burning.

And I—

I brought shadows I didn’t know how to name,

but you let them stay

like they were part of the furniture.

The moon didn’t rise the same

after you.

Even my coffee cooled slower,

as if time knew we’d found a loophole.

—And then the shift came—

Not loud.

Not tragic.

Just… quieter.

Like the space in a song

where nothing plays,

but you still feel the rhythm.

We learned that love doesn’t always

roar like a lion.

Sometimes it’s just sitting in traffic,

holding hands

while the world honks and moves

and forgets to see.

Sometimes it’s the bruise after laughter,

or the way your name

feels different in my mouth

depending on the day.

But still—

I’d pick your version of chaos

over anyone else’s calm.

There are mornings I forget

what we argued about,

but remember the way your back

looked leaving the room—

not angry,

just tired of proving love in a language

that never quite fit either of us.

And that’s the truth,

the kind no one writes songs about.

We stayed.

And in the staying,

we became.