sunrise
she lets me braid silence into her hair
twisting comfort between my fingers,
as if stillness itself could be made soft
if only touched gently enough
she thinks I’ll grow tired
that some part of her will dull in my eyes—
but I’ve seen the way she looks at a sunrise
like it’s never repeated itself
and that’s how I see her,
every time
her grip on my arm isn’t for balance
but for anchoring—
a quiet plea that says,
"don’t go too far, not even in thought"
as though love could be unintentional
as though I could ever un-want her
I’ve known beauty in mirrors
in moonlight
in melody—
but none of it held a candle
to the way she exists
without trying
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