there’s a quiet that finds me
when i see them across the room.
we each bare similar scars,
reminders of what we try to forget,
that same hollow weight that eats at our chests,
and in that shared suffering,
we know each other without words.
our hands meet,
and nothing is said,
but in that touch
everything is told,
through quiet that connects us.
we speak in small gestures,
anxious smiles and cautious glances,
the language of people who have known pain
and hope to find it lighter
when held together.
and in this quiet, a warmth grows,
embers are stirred,
and flame is born,
illuminating paths we closed.
i want to tell them everything,
but the words are too heavy,
so instead i just stay near,
letting the closeness speak
what our mouths cannot.
and in that moment,
the space between us closes,
the weight settles
lighter than ever,
and i think—maybe,
this is love.
( i cannot get this to a point where i’m proud of it so i’m just going to post and forget it. )