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What a Man Means
Love, he says, sounds like a door closing softly
in a room he built for your name—
that deliberate click of the latch
catching on possibility,
the way silence expands
after the last word
has been spoken.
Watch him afterward: how he becomes
a man translating himself
into a language he's never learned,
his phone glowing at 3 AM
with your name typed, erased
into the void of messages
he'll never send,
afraid your silence might answer first.
This is the archaeology of want:
how he maps the geography
of your smallest gestures,
the way you rest your coffee cup
against your lip before speaking,
memorizes the coordinates
of every place you've ever
touched his skin.
And perhaps this is why
when astronomers speak of dark matter—
that invisible weight
holding galaxies together—
I think of him learning
to love the way
gravity loves:
silently, essentially,
without asking permission
from the stars,
the way heat travels through empty space
to warm what it has never touched.
Copyright ©
Saeed Koushan
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