Eclipsed in Your Light

Eclipsed in Your Light

I.
In the hush before dawn, your name drifts
like a feather caught on the breath of morning,
soft as the curve of rivers
that have known centuries of wandering.
I whisper it into the emptiness,
and the walls of my solitude
begin to tremble,
folding inwards like paper cranes
carrying wishes I never dared send.

Your eyes are galaxies,
each blink a supernova,
and I—
a lone comet tracing the darkness—
cannot resist the pull,
cannot escape the orbit of your gravity.
I have counted the constellations
in your laughter,
traced the trembling edges
of your smile,
and found in their symmetry
the echo of something eternal.

II.
When you speak,
the world tilts,
as though the sun itself leans closer
to catch your syllables.
Even shadows seem to gather around you,
not to conceal,
but to worship the warmth you spill.
I have learned the language of your silences,
each pause a poem,
each sigh a sonnet
that hums beneath my skin
long after the sound dissolves.

Do you know what it is
to follow footsteps you cannot reach?
To chase echoes of a voice
that lingers like perfume
on the wind?
This is love.
And in this quiet pursuit,
I have discovered
not possession, not hunger,
but the sacred geometry
of presence—
the way you exist
simply,
fully,
and I—
I am whole just for witnessing it.

III.
I dream of your hands
as if they were keys to hidden doors,
unlocking chambers
where my own heart
has always been waiting.
I have traced every line
and found that the maps of my yearning
have been etched
in the palms of your fingers all along.
Do you feel it too,
the silent pulse beneath skin,
the unspoken promise
that even time cannot erode?

Love is not always flame.
Sometimes it is the riverbed
after rain,
shimmering with the memory of clouds,
reflecting what once was and
what will be again.
You are that riverbed to me—
still, yet flowing;
calm, yet carrying the force
of countless storms.
I am drawn to you like rain
to stone,
like roots to soil,
like breath
to air.

IV.
If I could speak in colors,
I would paint you in the hues of longing:
amber for the warmth of your mornings,
emerald for the quiet strength
that steadies my trembling world,
and indigo for the nights
where your absence
teaches me
that every star in the sky
has its shadow.
Yet even shadows,
dark as they are,
cannot diminish the blaze
of your existence,
cannot erase the way
you have carved sunlight
into my chest.

I have written your name
on the margins of my days,
and the ink refuses to fade.
It spreads into my dreams,
bleeding through the seams of sleep,
where you appear in impossible places:
in the curve of a bridge,
in the hush of a library,
in the scent of rain
on the asphalt.
Every moment becomes a fragment of you,
and I gather them carefully,
like seashells along a shore
that remembers every wave
that ever touched it.

V.
Love is patient, the poets say,
but you have taught me
that it is also fierce.
It breaks and rebuilds,
fractures and mends,
until we are no longer separate,
but part of the same pulse
that drums
through the earth,
through the oceans,
through the marrow of our bones.
I see you in the spaces between moments,
in the pause between one heartbeat
and the next,
in the silence
where words are not enough.

So I offer you this:
a thousand breaths,
a thousand lifetimes,
if they are yours to hold.
For in your presence,
I have discovered infinity,
not as a concept,
but as a living thing
that walks,
that laughs,
that bends the air
to meet my lips.
And in that infinity,
I am home.