I Compared You to Things That Don’t Ask to Be Explained

I tried to compare you to the obvious things—
the moon, the ocean, the stars—
but they’ve all been named too many times,
and loving you doesn’t feel borrowed.
It feels original.

So I compared you to silence—
the kind that doesn’t ache,
the kind that rests its head on your shoulder
and listens to your heartbeat
like it’s a promise.

You are the pause between thoughts,
the soft place my mind goes
when the world grows too sharp.
You don’t arrive.
You unfold.

Loving you feels like walking through fog
that somehow knows my name.
Like dreaming with my eyes open,
unsure where I end
and you begin.

You are candlelight learning how to breathe.
You are sleep coming easily
after years of restless nights.
You are the sound of rain
forgetting to fall hard.

If I had to place you somewhere,
you’d live in the in-between—
between words and meaning,
between touch and intention,
between who I was
and who I’m becoming.

You love me gently,
as if you’re afraid I might shatter—
and yet you never treat me like I’m broken.
You hold my flaws
like they’re part of the design,
not mistakes to be corrected.

Sometimes I think loving you
is like remembering a past life
where everything ended softly.
Where nothing was rushed,
nothing was forced,
and hearts were allowed
to bloom at their own pace.

If love were a dream,
you’d be the part that lingers
long after I wake,
the feeling that follows me all day,
quietly whispering:
this is real,
this is safe,
this is home.

And if one day I lose the language for love,
if words ever fail me completely,
I hope I’ll still know how to love you—
the way night knows the sky,
the way breath knows the body,
the way the soul recognizes
what was meant for it.