Where Our Souls

I start with the quiet thrum in my chest

whenever you cross my thoughts,

a gentle pull that feels almost ancient,

like something we agreed upon

long before we learned each other’s names.

There’s a rhythm in the way you look at me,

soft but sure,

as if you recognize a home

you didn’t realize you’d been missing.

Your presence settles into me

like warmth after a long, uncertain night,

steadying the edges I tried to hide.

I breathe easier beside you,

not because everything becomes simple,

but because nothing feels too big

when your hand rests near mine.

You carry a kind of quiet magic,

the sort that doesn’t need to announce itself

to be felt entirely.

Then, subtle and undeniable,

not loud,

not sudden,

more like the soft click

when a key finally slips into place.

A realization shaping itself in the silence:

what we share isn’t delicate,

and it doesn’t sway with distance or doubt.

It’s connection stitched into the small things,

the laugh you almost hide,

the way you tilt your head

when you’re listening with your whole heart,

the trust that grows in the pauses

between what we say.

Loving you feels like stepping into music

I somehow already know the steps to,

yet still learn something new

every time we touch.

And maybe that’s what makes this real,

how effortlessly you turn the ordinary

into something worth holding close.

If the world ever asked me

where I feel most myself,

I’d answer without hesitation:

wherever you are,

even if it’s just your voice

finding its way to me

from miles I no longer fear.