Quietly Kept

No... love drips. Quietly, and slowly. A glance across a bookstore aisle. The way they say your name like it's theirs to keep. An empty mug left in the sink- proof they were here, even after they're gone.

You don't fall all at once. You collect pieces. Moments. Smiles. Breaths they didn't know you were counting.

And by the time you realize you've given them everything… you've already memorized how they close their eyes when they laugh.

It's almost like they're asking to be revisited. Like they know you weren't finished with them. Not really.

And maybe that's the problem. Some stories don't have a clean ending. Some leave their last line hanging in the air long after the cover closes.

Look lower. To the worn spine half-hidden on the second shelf. The one with pages soft from turning, stained by a forgotten glass of wine or maybe tears they'd never admit to shedding. That's the one that mattered.

We all have that book. The one we return to when no one's watching. The one that knows who we really are.

She locks her door but leaves the window open. Not wide. Just enough.

She moves through her apartment like it's a stage she's forgotten she's performing on... barefoot, distracted, her hair pulled up carelessly as if she's never had to consider who might be watching.

Love is a waiting room. A pen running out of ink halfway through a letter you were never brave enough to send. It's unfinished poetry and the silence after a favorite song ends.