When the World

I knew it—

the moment you laughed,

your voice tumbling like marbles

across the kitchen tiles,

sunlight catching on your cheek,

a mosaic of morning and memory.

We stitched together days

with borrowed words—

sometimes a dash of español,

your abuela’s lullabies humming

between sips of chai and café au lait,

sometimes a fragment of French

slipping through your smile,

mon cœur, you’d say,

as if love could be measured

in syllables and steam.

You’d tell me stories

about the monsoon rains in Mumbai,

how the city would shimmer

with possibility,

and I’d answer with tales

of late-night subway rides,

graffiti hearts blooming

on concrete walls in Brooklyn.

We built a language

out of glances and gestures—

your hand tracing lazy circles

on my wrist,

my laughter folding into yours

like origami cranes,

awkward and beautiful,

never quite the same shape twice.

Then, a shift—

a pause in the middle of a sentence,

the air thick with something

unspoken,

and I realized:

love isn’t a headline,

it’s the footnotes—

the way you remember my favorite song,

the way I learn to say

good morning in your mother’s tongue,

buenos días,

even when my accent stumbles.

We are a patchwork of places

and promises,

imperfect and unfinished,

but when you reach for my hand

in the half-light,

I understand—

this is how worlds are made,

one heartbeat,

one borrowed word at a time.