When the Silence

I asked nothing—

not even your name,

just stood still while the wind stitched you

into the quiet of my sky.

We met where seconds slow,

where time folds itself like linen

on the edge of a long-forgotten chair.

Your voice was less a sound

and more a thread—

pulled gently through me

like dusk through pine.

Somehow, you moved

without ever arriving.

You spoke like someone

who had already lived

the goodbye—

and still chose to stay.

You touched me

like a question

that didn’t want an answer.

There was gravity in the way

you didn’t flinch

when I unraveled.

—

And then:

a strange and sudden hush—

your eyes stopped searching.

Mine began.

It wasn’t a spark,

more like a shift—

as if the stars bent

just slightly out of habit

to make room for something

neither of us could name.

I began to believe

that maybe the ache

wasn’t something to heal—

but something sacred

meant to be held.

Now when we kiss,

it’s not a flame—

it’s the echo of every fire

we never lit,

burning quietly

just beneath our bones.