When the Light Bent

I met you mid-question,

not in a moment wrapped in perfection,

but on the edge of something undone,

like a page torn from a book

still warm from the reader’s hands.

You looked up.

The sky didn’t part,

but the way your eyes caught the light,

it was like the world stammered

and corrected its course.

We didn’t speak in lines,

we let time dilate in the silence,

feet touching the same cracked sidewalk

but dancing different rhythms.

You told me love wasn’t a spark,

but a slow leak of color

into a grayscale frame.

I laughed too loud,

you stayed anyway.

And suddenly,

I was learning how to breathe in technicolor,

learning the soft rebellion of staying,

even when storms threatened pretty things.

But I almost missed it.

Almost let the moment smudge itself

into another ordinary evening,

almost mistook gravity

for coincidence.

Almost.

Now,

your hands feel like continuity.

Your laugh,

like punctuation in a long-winded prayer

I forgot I was saying.

We’re not perfect,

but something holy

must have paused for us.

Bent the timeline slightly,

nudged fate in a quiet hallway

until it tripped

and spilled you

into my unfinished life.

So here we are,

unwritten still,

but undeniably begun.