Where the Moon

I began with your name like it was breath—

soft, uncertain,

the kind of thing that unravels stars

if spoken too close to midnight.

Your eyes weren’t just eyes—

they were questions the sky

had never dared to ask.

So I answered, anyway,

with the kind of silence that trembles.

You sat beside me

like you had always been there,

not beside me, but within—

the way a storm holds

its thunder behind a grin.

Fingertips brushed mine

like old stories meeting new ink,

and I nearly forgot

how to hold a world

that isn’t you.

We talked,

but our words were scaffolding—

what lived between us

was the real cathedral.

Then—

a shift.

Like dusk cracking open

to reveal the hush of flame.

You looked at me

like you knew where I was broken

and stayed anyway.

I wanted to drink in everything

you wouldn’t say out loud.

Not with thirst—

with reverence.

The kind reserved

for dreams

that actually answer back.

You leaned closer—

time slowed

like it was listening,

and the breath between us

forgot whose lungs it belonged to.

Now—

when you’re near,

my heartbeat forgets its footing,

and I no longer pray

for answers.

Only the next moment.

Only this.