Threads of Light

 Threads of Light

I.
Before the morning hum,
before the sun has traced its first line
across the sky,
I think of you.
Not in the loud, urgent way
that pulls hearts into collision,
but in the soft, unspoken moments
where thought itself becomes a caress.
I feel the curve of your smile
in the corners of my mind,
the echo of your voice
like a melody I once dreamt
and now cannot forget.

There is a rhythm to longing,
measured not in hours but in breaths,
not in distance but in the spaces
between moments when the world
folds inward,
and all that exists
is the thought of you
folded neatly in my chest,
warm as sunrise,
silent as the snow
that gathers at the edge of rivers.

II.
I remember the first time
our hands brushed,
a simple, ordinary contact,
and yet, in that fleeting friction,
I discovered infinity.
It was not the drama of storms
or the blaze of lightning,
but the quiet revelation
that the universe could bend
in the presence of another soul.
Your hand against mine
was a confession,
a poem without words,
and I traced the outline
as though the lines
were written in the air itself.

Love begins in small things:
the tilt of your head,
the laughter that lingers
after the joke has died,
the sigh that arrives
without warning,
without pretense,
as if your body had remembered
before your mind could speak.
And in these fragments,
I find you whole,
complete in ways
I did not know were possible.

III.
Sometimes I imagine
the world without you—
gray, hollow, a canvas
where colors have fled.
But then I see your shadow
against the wall,
your hair caught in sunlight,
and the world blooms again,
vivid, trembling, alive.
You are the spark
that ignites the quiet corners of my mind,
turning them into constellations
that hum with memory and possibility,
turning silence into song.

Your voice is a river
that carries me home,
even when I wander through deserts
and cities
that have forgotten the sound of rain.
I have tried to measure it,
to weigh it in my hands,
but it slips through fingers
like smoke,
and all I can do
is listen,
and let it flood me
until I am nothing
and everything
all at once.

IV.
Do you know the way the heart remembers
even when the mind has gone astray?
I see your smile in strangers,
in the curve of a cup,
in the turn of a streetlight,
and each time,
I am reminded
that love is not the possession
of presence,
but the permanence
of impression.
You have carved your name
into the wood of my bones,
into the marrow of my ribs,
and even in sleep,
I carry the echo of your laugh,
the weight of your gaze,
the shape of your absence.

We are stitched together
by moments we cannot claim,
by gestures too small for memory,
by kisses that fall
like seeds into the soil of our skin.
And yet, in the unlikeliest places,
love blooms anyway—
a quiet rebellion against time,
against decay,
against the indifference
of everything else.

V.
I think of the days ahead,
when we will age and the world
will crumble like pages
left too long in the rain.
I think of the nights
when sleep will forget to carry us
and the silence will press against the windows
like a stranger.
And still, I would choose you—
again and again,
in every iteration,
in every possible world
where breath can meet breath,
where skin can find skin,
where the pulse of one can become
the pulse of another.

A kiss is the beginning
and the end,
a brief explosion of light
that lingers
in the corners of thought.
I have kissed you in dreams,
in rainstorms,
on streets no one remembers,
and each time,
the world bends around us,
folding itself
until only the two of us remain,
and the rest is poetry.

VI.
I have written your name
in the margins of everything:
in the edges of books,
in the pause between music,
in the breath before sleep.
It is not an obsession,
but a recognition:
that some souls arrive
and the universe adjusts
to accommodate them.
Your soul has drawn my own
into orbit,
and now I move only because you move,
only because the air remembers
your weight in it.

And so, I love you
in the quiet way a river loves its banks,
in the persistent way sunlight loves the horizon,
in the fierce, consuming way
storms love to break apart what they touch.
I love you in every unremarkable moment,
in every ordinary dawn,
in every breath,
in every heartbeat,
until the world forgets its shape
and all that remains
is this—
a single, endless pulse
that carries your name
and mine
into eternity.

VII.
Even when we are not near,
even when the world
throws shadows between us,
I feel your presence
like a lighthouse in fog,
like a song that refuses to die.
You are the gravity
that keeps my fragments aligned,
the light that turns my cracks
into windows,
the quiet insistence
that love is not something
we find,
but something
that finds us,
and holds us
long after we think
we are alone.

And in the final moment,
when breath fades
and stars fall silent,
I know I will love you still.
Not as a memory,
not as a ghost,
but as a living,
unbroken current
that flows through the veins
of time itself,
carrying only your name,
and mine,
and the pulse of everything
we ever were together.