When Mornings

We began with steam —

not fire, not thunder,

but a hush curling from your mug

and the way your eyes

settled into mine

like they’d been home before.

Your voice broke the silence

not to fill it,

but to stir it gently,

like cream in coffee,

slow, knowing.

We laughed without reason.

You reached for a crumb

I hadn’t noticed I dropped —

and somehow,

it felt like forgiveness

for everything

we’d never said out loud.

Love, here, doesn’t roar.

It leans.

It breathes beside me,

half-asleep,

feet tangled

beneath a threadbare quilt of years.

But remember the rain?

That sudden rush on the rooftop

mid-conversation —

you paused,

and in that pause,

our whole world turned.

Suddenly,

your hands looked older,

mine steadier.

Our time together

less infinite,

more golden for it.

And still, you touched my cheek

as though it were day one,

as if all the mess behind us

only deepened the glow.