I never planned on drowning in this—
love was a storm forecasted in another city,
and I was content with sunny skies,
barely a breeze on my shoulders,
unbothered, nonchalant,
untouched by the ache of waiting.
But then she appeared—
not like thunder,
but like quiet gravity,
a pull so gentle I mistook it for balance.
I was fine,
fine not knowing what she ate for breakfast,
fine not needing to hear her voice
like oxygen at dawn.
I was fine not checking my phone
like a clock that only ticks when she speaks.
Now, I wonder how she's breathing—
if her morning tea kissed her right,
if the world's weight lets her walk unbent.
I want to talk to her,
constantly—
to weave myself into the fabric of her days,
yet step back,
because she is human too,
a universe expanding in her own orbit.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
And yet—
here it is:
a freedom I didn't know I lacked,
a luxury of heartbeats spent lavishly,
a love so feral and fine
it makes ruin and rebuilding feel like art.
This is a storm I welcome.
Let it toss me into sky and sea,
because I was not meant to stay dry.
I was meant to feel everything—
and I do.
God, I do.
