No Half-Light

I want to start where the silence thickens,

that moment just after laughter,

when eyes still echo what mouths won’t say.

You tilted your head like you knew something

the sky forgot,

and I fell, clumsy, into the shape of you.

We weren’t easy.

God, no.

We were sharp corners and wrong exits,

you loving mornings,

me living in the dusk of things,

but somehow, we kept finding

the same key

under different doormats.

Love isn’t soft.

It’s the ache in the middle of the best part.

It’s burned toast and cold coffee

that still feels like breakfast in bed

because they made it for you.

It’s not perfect timing,

it’s missing the train

and walking the whole way anyway

because they’re beside you.

and here it turns,

like pages dog-eared with purpose:

You told me you’d stay

not just in the light,

but when my voice cracked,

when I forgot how to be brave,

when I was just pieces and static and

too much.

You looked at me like

that was the moment worth keeping.

I didn’t know I was holding back

until you gave without asking.

Didn’t know my heart could break open

without bleeding.

We never needed vows.

We spoke with foreheads pressed,

with fingers tracing spines like

we were reading poems

written in skin.

So here,

take all the undone parts of me,

the mess,

the thunder,

the daydreams with no map.

And I’ll take

the way you leave lights on for no reason,

the hum in your throat

when you’re half-asleep,

the parts you don’t show anyone

except maybe the dog.

This isn’t a promise.

It’s something more honest.

It’s two people saying:

I’m not finished,

but I’m here.