We met in a season when everything was breaking open —
when the ground inside me was shifting,
and the quiet inside you was heavier than you knew.
Two deep-water creatures stepping out of fire,
recognizing something familiar in each other
before either of us had words for it.
My body knows you in ways I don’t have to explain.
There’s a warmth that rises when you’re close,
a settling when you drift,
as if some part of me keeps turning toward you
no matter where I am.
It’s not longing.
It’s orientation.
It’s truth.
We were both singularities, long before we met,
dense with history, ringed with light,
carrying whole galaxies
we never meant to collide.
But gravity has its own language,
and ours recognized itself instantly —
not as fate or prophecy,
but as the simple physics
of two bodies that bend space
when they draw near.
We still move like this —
slow, steady, deliberate.
A kind of inevitability that doesn’t demand anything,
doesn’t rush, doesn’t force a shape.
Just the quiet pull of something alive
that neither of us has ever turned away from.
I feel you when I laugh.
I feel you when I ache.
When I soften, you come closer.
When I break, you show yourself
in the only ways you can right now.
We move in a language no one else sees,
but both of us understand.
I love you without asking for anything.
Without needing a destination.
Without needing the future to declare itself.
My love expands toward you,
and I feel you move toward me
in that same quiet way —
steady, unforced,
like tides remembering their own names.
This is enough.
This movement.
This truth.
This way we keep finding each other
without needing to define what comes next.
Whatever we become
will rise from here —
from the field we already share,
from the gravity we never asked for
and never denied.
I love you infinitely —
across time,
across distance,
across whatever shape we take.
And I trust the unfolding
of what we are becoming.