You are not the sun—
you're the pause before it rises,
the hush that holds the promise of light.
You are not the ocean—
you're the ripple that knows where it's going
before the tide even dreams of returning.
I never needed fireworks—
you blink once,
and constellations adjust their choreography.
You speak, and time forgets to move.
You laugh, and gravity bends a little,
letting me fall gently toward you
like a leaf that chose its wind.
You, love, are not a chapter.
You are the ink.
You are the page that rewrites itself
just to keep me reading.