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You fit in my heart like a small hidden bird,
All hush-feathered wonder, more tremble than word,
As though you had flown through the bones of my frame,
And built something bright out of breath and of vein.

You settled where slow, quiet heartbeats begin,
In the red velvet dark folded under my skin,
Where the pulse keeps a rhythm both fragile and deep,
Like a secret the body is trying to keep.

I did not invite you, you simply were there,
A flicker of wings in the stillness of air,
A warmth in the hollow I had carefully grown,
A light in the place I had thought was just bone.

And oh, how I learned the soft weight of your song,
How it threaded my breathing and carried along,
Through mornings of silver and evenings of blue,
Till loving felt less like a choice, and more true.

But birds are made mostly of sky and height,
Of distance that glimmers in pale early light,
And sometimes I feel, in the curve of my chest,
The shift of a wing reconsidering rest.

Are these ribs a shelter, a circle, a seam,
Where you pause for a while like a half-finished dream?
Or are they thin bars I never meant to design,
Forged out of wanting you safely as mine?

For love is a blackbird that sings after dusk,
All velvet-throat music and midnight-soft musk,
It circles the quiet where daylight has been,
Then settles like shadow drawn close to the skin.

I never would clip what was born for the breeze,
Nor barter your sky for my own small ease,
Nor anchor your wings to the weight of my name,
Nor darken your flight with the shadow of claim.

If ever your feathers grow restless for air,
If wide-open heavens call louder than care,
I hope I remember that loving is this:
Not tightening fingers, but loosening wrists.

And if you stay folded in heartbeat and bone,
not tethered by fear, not held as my own,
then let it be a choice, quiet, steady and blessed,
Not bars of a cage, but the shape of a nest.

They strung a wire between two skies,
Said, Look how steady. Look how high.
They placed the pole in my hands,
And smiled as if I’d always stand.

They love to say I never sway.
That I was always built this careful way.
A practiced foot, a lifted chin,
As though the wind won’t press my skin.

If I wasn’t who they said I was,
Would they still gather just because?

The line was lower once, I think.
Or maybe I was less afraid to blink.
For every step feels more defined,
A thinner thread, a sharper line.

But now each step is drawn in chalk,
A measured shift, a mindful walk.
The wire hums a little loud,
A trembling string above a crowd.

They clap before I take a stride.
They trust the air to hold my side.
They speak as though the end is clear,
As though the fall is nowhere near.

If I wasn’t who they said I was,
Would the wind feel stronger than it does?

The wire hums.
It pulls.
It thins.
A silver, tightening violin.

I’ve done so well.
I’ve never slipped.
I’ve never let my balance tip.
They say the other side’s in sight,
Just one more stretch, just one more night.

The wire is taut. The air is thin.
The noise below seeps slowly in.

If I wasn’t who they said I was,
Would I still climb because they trust I will?

The thread feels narrower than before,
A breath-
A shift-
A step-
One more.

And hope the wire is steady still,
And I can be who they think I will.

Somewhere beyond the noise of the waking world,
Where the water lies still enough to hold the sky,
A quiet promise of two souls gently unfurled,
Like something eternal the stars cannot deny.

For love, they say, was never made to fade with time,
Nor blend beneath the turning of restless years.
It moves instead in silence, ancient and divine,
A hidden truth the quiet heart still holds dear.

So do the swans upon the silver water glide,
Not seeking witness, nor praise of the human sight,
But knowing only that side-by-side they bide,
Two living souls made gentle in the hush of light.

And when I think of love, it is not storms I see,
Though thunder rolls so grandly through poet’s art.
For tempests fade upon the ever-shifting sea,
And leave no lasting harbour for the heart.

Nor is it a candle trembling in the dark,
Whose fragile flame bends low before wandering air.
For such small fires may glow and leave a fleeting mark,
Yet fade to ash as though they had never been there.

Nor some wild ride that climbs with breathless, laughing speed,
Then falls again as quickly toward the ground below.
Such thrills may stir the restless heart indeed,
Yet fade as swiftly as the winds that blow.

But love, I think, is something hushed and slow,
A deeper current moving far beneath the years,
Where two quiet spirits learn at last to grow
Toward one calm truth untouched by mortal fears.

Like swans that find each other on a lonely lake,
And feel within that meeting something old as dawn,
A bond no passing season ever dares to break,
A vow that lingers softly even when all else is gone.

So let the world praise the flames that rise and move,
Then fade like echoes drifting slowly from the air.
I ask for only this: the faithful peace of love,
Like swans that choose one soul and find their forever there.

This day arrives in softened gold, in quiet light that lingers long,
As though the earth itself had learned the measure of a gentler song.
No crimson flare nor trumpet’s cry attends this tender, chosen hour,
It comes instead like early spring unfolding petal, leaf, and flower.

The air lies warm upon the skin, though February waits outside,
With silver frost upon the fields and winter pressing far and wide.
No hurried pulse, no trembling storm confined within the waiting chest,
For in your nearness, strangely so, the season seems itself at rest.

Though bare the branch and pale the dawn beneath the year’s most fragile sun,
A gentler climate stirs within, as if some softer spring begun.
I had not thought that peace could dwell so close to something bright and new,
That calm might bear so clear a flame, yet never scorch the sky in view.

No vow is spoken to the wind, no promise carved in hurried art,
Yet something in the hush between has quietly altered where I start.
The world retains its shape and sound, its turning tide and shifting air,
Yet moves with kinder harmony when I discover you are there.

If this be what the first of days devoted thus to love may bring,
Not fevered blaze nor reckless fire, but warmth that makes the spirit sing,
Then let it come without acclaim, without the need for grand display,
For in this quiet, golden hour, my heart has found its place to stay.

And should the seasons turn again with sterner winds across the land,
I shall recall this quiet hour, though few may truly understand,
How light did not demand the sky, nor seek the world’s command,
It simply touched till all within grew steady at its hand.

Oh, snow. Tell me your secret. Tell me how you learned to fall like that, slowly and intact, a s if the world itself had paused for you. We began in the same place, you and I, held together above all that is noticed, indistinguishable until the moment we were released. I remember that sameness still.

Somewhere on the way down, you were shaped into something the world could love. The air turned kinder in your favour, granting you the time I was never given. You learned how to hold yourself together, how to arrive whole. By the time you reached them, you were already beautiful, as if becoming had cost you nothing.

When you appear, faces lift without thought. Hands open instinctively, the way they do for things already trusted. You settle softly into hair and sleeves, into the quiet margins where attention lingers longest. You are permitted to remain. You are forgiven even when you slow the world, even when you make it harder to move through. Children surrender to you without fear, lying back and letting you take their shape.  When I come, those same children are called inside. Voices sharpen. Doors close. Laughter thins to nothing. I learn, again and again, what it is to be the reason something beautiful ends. I watch them love you without effort, and I despise myself for wondering why it comes so easily to you.

I follow, and the air does not slow. I am pulled apart before I know what shape I am meant to keep. I fall because I must, not because I am welcomed. I arrive everywhere, touching too much, staying too long. I am necessary and unloved, felt only in excess, remembered only in complaint. You are missed. I am escaped

Still, I watch you rest upon the world, unafraid of being seen. I imagine myself lighter, quieter, cooled at the right moment. I imagine holding together long enough to be chosen. If I could learn your way of falling, I would. For somewhere in me lives the foolish belief that if I studied you closely enough, if I learned the exact manner of your descent, I might become you. That the difference between us was not decided at our beginning but granted mercifully along the way. That there was a moment, only one, when I might have been shaped differently, and was not.

If you possess a secret, snow, I am listening.
If you were given something I was denied, tell me its name.
I am so very tired of falling as I am.

Yours,
Rain

It came like the tide against an unexpecting shore,
Soft at first, then certain,
Tracing salt and shimmer into places
long since declared untouched.

It hummed beneath the ribs,
A secret language of pulse and breath,
Teaching silence how to sing again.

It arrived like moonlight through a half-open door,
Brushing dust into silver,
Teaching forgotten rooms
The taste of light again.

It breathed into fragments,
The flutter of wings against glass,
The trembling of a name
Before it is spoken.

It grew in the hush between hours,
In the soft persistence of morning,
In the warmth that lingers after your hand has gone.

It wrote itself in small mercies,
In candle smoke and drifting rain,
In the quiet courage of two hearts learning the same rhythm.

Until everything, even the quiet became love.