When the Light

It started with a look—

not the kind people write about in songs,

but the quiet kind,

like two stars meeting underwater.

You were brushing dust from an old record,

and I,

I was watching time fold in on itself

like a letter someone forgot to send.

The world didn’t shift—

it wobbled.

A slow tilt of something sacred

breaking its spine

to cradle us closer.

We talked about everything

except the things we meant.

How coffee isn’t about caffeine,

how silence can have texture,

how love feels like forgetting your own name

just to learn theirs better.

You called it serendipity,

but I think we were rewritten

by some soft glitch in the code—

something that wanted to see what would happen

if two lives rhymed

without meaning to.

And then, a turn.

You started painting with your eyes closed.

Said the world looked better

when you didn’t try to make sense of it.

I wrote poetry backwards

to see if I could find where it started.

We never touched the moon,

but somehow we left fingerprints on the sky.

We lost track of days.

Time got drunk off our conversations,

started looping

the way a song does

when no one dares to skip it.

I never asked where we were going,

only how long we could stay

in this unlit miracle

where everything felt

just almost possible.

And when you finally said,

“this feels like falling without fear,”

I knew the light had turned backward

just for us.