There is someone
who arrived carrying his own weather,
storms I could not trace.
We touched the same ache,
like mirrors facing.
Reflecting,
but not meeting.
I see him as a treasure,
beheld,
but not possessed.
The way warmth lingers
after a hand lets go.
I love him.
I do love him.
That love is a river moving through me.
It does not argue with its course.
Its instinct carries it true,
even in the dark.
Love is not a transaction.
It is movement.
When I block it (and I’ve tried it),
my body tightens,
my breath shortens.
When I let it move,
my shoulders soften,
my pulse steadies.
I am myself.
Alive.
Whole.
Open in passion,
open in ache.
So I let it flow,
not to save,
not to fix,
not to be chosen,
just beating with what is,
letting it all be,
listening to the whisper of life:
Keep Loving. Tonight. That’s Enough.