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.