Love That Finds Us

Your first breath in the room says more than any promise ever could.

You stand like a question I have wanted to answer for years,

hands open but not empty, eyes carrying the weather of other lives.

We trade small truths like spare coins,

awkward and warm, and the room softens around us.

I laugh at something you did five minutes and five lifetimes ago,

and the sound stitches a seam I did not know was torn.

Then everything tilts.

Not because of fate or a sudden revelation,

but because I remember what I almost forgot:

love is not a reward for perfection,

it is a reckless, tender agreement to keep showing up.

So I step closer, not to fix you, not to be fixed,

but to hold steady as the map redraws itself beneath our feet.

You take my hand and the world resettles into something we can carry.

We are flawed and luminous and entirely present,

proof that some hearts keep meeting each other on purpose.