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Poem written for "1441 Love" poetry contest, Brian Strand, sponsor, January 27, 2026.
I found your silence first—not the hush of snowfall or stopped clocks, but the raw unraveling of a symphony mid-note, the bow still hovering above the strings. What composes you? Not the obvious: not the freckles like tossed pennies, not the laugh that cracks like thin ice. Deeper—the way your shadow hesitates at doorways, as if it remembers a threshold it once couldn’t cross. Your hands are not just hands: they are the aftermath of holding on, the creases where light lingers like a rumor in an empty room. I trace them, learning the braille of all you’ve clenched and released. Sometimes, I catch you staring at the spaces between things~ the pause before a downpour, the breath a mirror steals when it forgets your face. You are the almost, the not quite, the symphony that never resolves. And yet~ when you turn to me, unfinished, I swear I hear the music begin again, and I fall in love with you all over again.
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