I watch her move through rooms
as though light has chosen her first.
Every gesture carries a quiet gravity—
the tilt of her wrist,
the pause before laughter,
the way her eyes seem to gather whole afternoons.

I say nothing.
Longing has learned the language of stillness.
Even the air between us
is tuned to a note only I can hear.

She speaks, and the timbre,
smoke and sugar,
rearranges the air around me,
like dusk settling over a field.
And I find the ache
of a place I once belonged to
but can’t seem to return.

She doesn’t notice the way I listen—
how each word is a door
I stand behind,
breathing in the faint perfume of possibility.

To others, I am kind, composed,
but my heart is an unfinished painting,
its brightest colors, waiting
for the brush of her regard.

And though the world keeps its distance,
I carry her quietly,
as if her name were a fragile flame
and my silence, the only way
to keep it alive.