The Small Gestures

I notice every little thing you do,

like how your fingers pause on the rim of a glass

as if you’re holding back a thought

too delicate for sound.

The curve of your smile

comes and goes like tidewater,

but I catch it,

each time,

as though the world itself stops to breathe with you.

There’s no grand announcement here,

no lightning crash or trumpet flare.

Just the quiet miracles,

the way your laughter folds into mine,

the tilt of your head when you’re listening,

that light touch you leave behind

as though you’re marking me gently,

without a word.

But then it happens,

a sudden shift,

a swell inside my chest I can’t contain.

These moments aren’t small at all;

they are the architecture of love,

the bricks and beams of something

that outlasts storms.

It’s not the fireworks that move me,

but the steady flame

that never wavers,

never demands to be noticed,

yet I do.

Always, I do.

And maybe that’s what devotion is:

to see what others miss,

to find eternity

woven into the tiniest of gestures.