When the Light

I saw you before the music did.

Before the wine glass leaned, before anyone else noticed

how your laugh changed the shape of the room.

You weren’t posing. Just being.

And somehow that broke me open a little.

Your sleeves rolled up like you weren’t afraid to feel

anything that might arrive unexpected.

You talked like the world hadn’t bruised your voice,

as if hope still had good posture.

I wanted to ask if I could stay a while

inside whatever peace you’d made with yourself.

Your eyes weren’t trying to seduce—

they just understood things I hadn’t told anyone.

Like how the loneliness hides in the small hours,

how silence can sometimes scream louder than storms,

how some people touch without hands.

Then—

something shifted.

The air didn’t change, but I did.

You turned to look at me

like I’d already done the hard work of becoming real,

and all I had left was to meet you in it.

You didn’t ask for more than truth.

That’s rarer than charm.

It’s messier than beauty.

I’ve loved loud and reckless,

but this time feels like an inside voice

finally being heard.

You don’t float or shimmer or glow—

you stand still

in a world that spins too fast.

And maybe that’s the magic:

someone who stays,

even when the lights come back on,

even when the song ends,

even when the perfect moment

turns back into a Tuesday.

And still—

you’re everything

I thought was gone.