we met again, mid-sentence

We Met Again, Mid-Sentence

Beauty is not a verdict but a verb,

rendering itself at different speeds.

In one eye, the face is chorus—

in another, it is a single bell.

We met in the middle distance

and called that distance human.

Not quite strangers, not quite known,

our words still hanging in the air

like laundry left to dry in dusk.

You spoke first, or maybe I did—

the sentence already half-formed,

like a bridge built from both ends

hoping to meet in the middle.

Time had softened the edges,
but the resonance remained.
I remembered your cadence
before I remembered your name.

We did not ask where we’d been.

We did not ask why we paused.

We simply resumed— as if silence

had been the punctuation

we both agreed upon.

And in that unfinished sentence,

beauty moved again—

not as conclusion,

but as continuation.