Where the Sky Meets You

 Where the Sky Meets You

I.
I have seen mornings
rise in quiet rebellion,
breaking through the edges of sleep
like light spilling over a cracked cup.
And in those early moments,
I think of you—
not as a storm,
not as a blaze,
but as the gentle gravity
that bends my world
without force,
without demand.

Your voice lingers in the air,
a soft pulse against the walls of thought.
It hums in empty streets,
in the spaces between heartbeats,
and I chase it
like a lone bird
searching for the echo
of its own wings.

II.
Love is in the small things:
the tilt of your head,
the pause before a laugh,
the brush of your fingers
against the back of my hand,
like wind caressing a field
too stubborn to bend.
It is not loud; it does not announce itself.
It waits,
patient, persistent,
folding itself into the cracks
of ordinary days,
until suddenly,
it is all I can see.

Do you know the way the world softens
in the presence of someone who knows you?
I have felt it—
the way shadows turn gentle,
the way colors deepen,
the way the air itself
remembers your shape
even when you are not here.

III.
Your eyes are a language
I am still learning,
a map with no edges,
no lines,
just the infinite
curve of something I cannot name.
I trace them with my gaze,
with my thoughts,
with the quiet confession
that even time
cannot erase the memory
of what it finds sacred.

And when our hands meet,
it is more than touch.
It is history,
it is gravity,
it is the slow unraveling
of everything I thought I knew
about longing,
about desire,
about the fragile architecture
of human hearts.

IV.
I have kissed the thought of you
in the darkness,
in the rain,
in the spaces between one heartbeat
and the next.
Each kiss is a small rebellion,
a defiance against the impermanence
of the world around us.
It is proof that some things endure,
even when the sky falls,
even when the earth forgets
the names we call each other.

I carry you in the quiet corners of my day,
in the pause before sleep,
in the spaces where words
cannot reach.
You are the pulse beneath my ribs,
the hush of wind through an empty room,
the secret rhythm
that reminds me
that even in absence,
we are whole.

V.
So I will love you
in the ordinary,
in the invisible threads
that connect one moment to another.
I will love you in the sunrise,
in the hush of night,
in the quiet insistence
that even the simplest truth
can bend the world:
that someone exists
who turns everything
into light.