it’s in the glance held too long,
in the breath you save for later,
watching her sip coffee
as if the world were not burning.
love isn’t roses, not always,
not the violin screech of passion,
but the way you notice
she taps her fingers, five beats,
always five.
love is not rescuing anyone
just watching them wade
through their own chaos.
it’s the tilt of her head
when she chews a thought
too big for the room.
you ask how her day went,
not waiting to reply,
but because the way
her voice bends
is enough to keep you
alive one more hour.