Your words arrive like quiet dawn
through the cracks of my doubt,
soft, insistent light.
They don’t shout.
They just stand beside me
until the room in my chest
is wide enough to breathe.
I borrow their certainty
the way a candle borrows flame—
one small wick, suddenly unafraid
because you leaned close
and said, simply,
you can.
And in that moment
the old house I live in
stops apologizing for its creaks.
I open every curtain.
I walk loud.
I stay.
You Are My World
Before you, the sky was only weather.
Then you opened your eyes
and the blue rearranged itself into oceans
I had never sailed,
continents I suddenly needed to name.
You are the gravity I orbit without complaint.
Every sunrise borrows its gold from your skin,
every night returns it,
quietly,
the way a tide returns shells to the same shore
because it cannot bear to keep them.
If the map of my days were folded small enough
to fit inside a locket,
your heartbeat would be the clasp
that keeps the whole world from spilling out.
You are the quiet yes beneath every noise,
the reason stars bother to burn
when no one asked them to.
I was a room with one window;
you walked in
and became all the light
I will ever need
to see the rest of my life.