Through Every Weather

You were a storm when I met you—

hair full of lightning,

eyes stitched with quiet thunder.

I was a candle flickering too close to the edge,

but still—I leaned in.

We didn’t promise ease,

we promised presence.

Fingers that would trace through ache,

laughter that could echo through silence,

words that knew how to wait

until the heart caught up.

We grew in fragments,

like ivy along the cracks—

not perfect,

but stubborn in our climb.

Mornings came when you forgot

your own name in the mirror,

and I learned how to spell it back to you

with my breath.

—And still—

on a Tuesday that smelled like burned toast

and old songs,

you turned, mid-coffee, mid-chaos,

and said, “You make this feel like home.”

I didn’t need the sky to open.

That was enough.

We built a language

only we understand—

glances, shoulder nudges,

that one raised brow

that meant “stay with me.”

Time has teeth,

but it hasn’t bit through us.

We hold—not for the fair days—

but the storm-soaked ones,

the days we look less like art

and more like effort.

Still, I choose you—

not because I have to.

Because I want to.

Even when it’s hard.

Especially then.