When the Sky

I swear,

the stars were arguing tonight—

spinning out like lovers who stayed too long in silence.

You ever feel the sky blink? Like really pause

mid-thought, mid-breath—

that’s what it did, just now.

I was watching.

Cross-legged, hood up,

back leaning on the old satellite dish no one’s bothered to take down.

You were beside me,

half-laughing at the way my fingers fumbled the thermos cap—

I told you it wasn’t nerves,

but it was.

Somewhere between Orion slipping his belt again

and Venus winking at nobody in particular,

you said something like:

“Maybe the universe is just a love letter we keep misreading.”

Because I felt something tilt.

The way your voice slowed,

like it wanted to stay behind after you’d gone,

like it knew the weight of every word

before you did.

You reached for my hand without ceremony.

No preamble. Just warmth.

Like you’d done it a hundred times in a life I can’t remember

but my skin does.

The air had this electric hush to it,

as if it knew

we’d stumbled into the tender undercurrent

of some ancient choreography,

set to a tempo only lovers and liars remember.

We sat there until the night ran out of metaphors,

until the moon got shy behind a cloud—

and I swear it wasn’t cold,

not even a little.