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I have loved you in the spaces between seconds,
where time forgets its name.
In the hush before the morning
learns how to be light.

My mouth is full of unsaid things,
soft as dust in a sunbeam.
Every word I reach for
turns to breath against your skin—
felt, but never held.

If I could speak in constellations,
I’d spell you across the dark.
But my voice is only human,
and you are more than that.

So I wait—
like light waits for the window,
like dawn waits for the earth to turn.
Across lifetimes,
across closed doors and quiet years,
I am still here.

If loving you is silence,
I will learn how to whisper forever.

We are a complicated season,
half in bloom, half in goodbye.
Your hands say stay,
your shadows say survive.

I try to fit my heart into language,
but it breaks the shape of every sound.
All I have is this trembling—
a pulse,
a prayer
that doesn’t know how to end.

Maybe we were written in margins,
in ink that fades with rain.
Still, I trace your name in the fog
of my own breathing.

And I wait—
like a lighthouse with no shoreline,
like a clock that forgets to move.
Across lifetimes,
through borrowed bodies and borrowed names,
I find you again.

If loving you is losing,
I will lose with open hands.

Time bends around us,
thin as glass.
I see our reflections—
almost,
almost.

If I cannot hold your future,
let me hold your light.
If I cannot say the right words,
let my breath say
I am yours.

So I wait—
not for promise,
not for forever spoken clean—
but for the quiet moment
our eyes admit
what our mouths cannot.

Across lifetimes,
through sweetness and ache,
I choose you
in every language I fail to speak.

And if this love is only
a soft, unfinished sentence—
let it be
ours.