September 17th, 2024
I’ve been wondering about love, what it is when you strip it back.
Is it being someone’s most familiar thing?
Not the loud, dramatic kind of recognition. Not fireworks or grand gestures. Just… the way they can pick your footsteps out of a crowd, or the exact rhythm of your breathing when you’re trying not to cry.
The way your name lives in their mouth the same way it lives in yours—automatic, effortless, like muscle memory. Like they could find you blindfolded, in the dark, just by the shape you leave in the air.
I don’t know if that’s beautiful or terrifying.
Maybe it’s both.
Maybe it’s the only thing that ever really matters.
And maybe… I want it more than I’m willing to admit.
Even if it never comes.
Even if I spend the rest of my life humming to empty rooms and hoping someone, somewhere, is listening.