Her

Until your arms felt like gravity, like the earth finally remembered where I belonged.

Sometimes, you are the quiet in the storm.

Other times, you are the thunder in my bones.

Either way... you are the weather I’d walk through again and again.

There is no map for where we’re going.

No guarantee.

Just this beating thing between us... brave enough to keep trying.

And if one day the world burns down around us,

I will still believe that love like this was always worth the fire.

You...

you are everywhere I go when I stop trying to be brave.

Everywhere I rest when I finally let myself feel.

although you’re not mine… when i address you in my head, i still call you baby.

when i read your writing, whether it cuts me or not, i snap and hum in agreement — there’s something about the way your mind works… one of the many things i fell in love with.

i picture myself smushing your face in the palm of my hands. i kiss you: across your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, your forehead. over and over, until you’re pretending to be annoyed.

you look at me like you’re over it. but when i pull away, you grab my hand and place it back on your cheek.

and i stop, and admire you for every emotion and stage you go through. whatever stage you are in, I adore you regardless. emotions bubble up and boil over in me.

i lie awake thinking of you not with sorrow but with a quiet hope

my hands reach out not out of emptiness but because i want to hold you close

there’s a warmth inside me like a fire waiting to burn bright for you

sleep comes slow but when it does it carries soft dreams of us

i wait not because i’m lost but because my heart knows

i knew it i knew your soul would feel it somehow, how could it not?

i walk to the stage, wipe my trembling hands on my jeans, having to lower the mic to my mouth, the room is filled with a sea of strangers…

and then, the poems i write for you spill out of me, onto the stage their mouths fall open, eyes widen scanning my face they all see me, but i only see you

my soul calls out to you, my voice a lightning bolt, cracking open over this city, trying to reach you anyway

i stare at the empty table, front row, a seat saved just for you i knew you wouldn’t come, i knew, but still

your hologram sits down, smiles at me like you used to and i speak directly to you, in a room full of strangers

i walk off, everyone claps, but i know they’re clapping for you

i look down, because i can start to feel my boots filling with water, the blisters worsen, the barbed wire wraps itself around my ribs, and slowly peels back the layers of my skin, but i keep crawling.

blood and mud drip down my eyes, into my ears, i keep crawling.

i squeeze my eyes as tight as i can, trying to bring her back, i keep crawling.

through the dead of night, i search for her in the pitch black, i follow her like she is the moon light, out of reach, but always ahead, i keep crawling.

the chill of the night grows cold, and my dripping clothes cling to my body made of cement, i keep crawling.

i keep my fist clenched to my chest, in it, a locket, the locket holds what’s left of me, sealed in silver, i keep crawling.

i see her reflection at the edge of the lake, i rip the chain from my neck, and wash the locket gently in the water, i look up to her, her silhouette bathing in moonlight.

i hand her what’s left of my heart. she smiles.

i pray that what’s left of my heart keeps her warm through the night, the light in my eyes flickers, and my body is limp.

what a sight to see before you go.

I live, in that stretch of time, that fragile, fragile second, before the world moves on.

Where her touch lingers, like sunlight, caught between my fingers, too soft to hold, too fierce to forget.

The night waits, patient, silent, like it knows the story’s not over.

Folding us, slowly, gently, into its endless pages.

Every heartbeat, a line, every breath, punctuation,

and we, we are both the author, and the poem.

I stay, right there, in that moment suspended, between now, and forever.

Where the world blurs, and all that matters, is the soft weight of her hand in mine,

But we live every day like we forget, like time is not a gift, but an endless eternity meant only for us.

I stand here now with the weight of the truth woven into my ribs, reminding me: life is much shorter than we think.

I stand here, in this empty house, a reminder that one day all that will be left are photos, boxes… and maybe grandchildren— and they will hear our voices when they walk through the front door, to hellos that echo but are no longer there.

But I was there.

I held a quarter of space and time in their lives. And the time we had… it was not long enough.

I stand here knowing my mother was around my age when they became grandparents.

And now I know my mother and I may only have a quarter of time left together.

I know I have time but I’m also running out.

I know no moment should be wasted. I know every breath we take is not promised for another.

I know I have too many angels.

I know my angels probably don’t like poetry but they’re probably required, as my guardians, to sit front row anyway.

And I laugh.

Because life is short but also, somehow, eternal.

I am running out of time in this body