And Then You

I never called it loneliness.
What I had before you.
It was stillness—
a kind of quiet I made a home out of.
Soft walls.
Moonlight.
Books in piles.
Mornings with only my breath
to keep me company.

I learned to live gently that way.
To move through the world
without asking it to echo me back.
I knew the beauty of silence.
And I never asked for more.

But then—
you.

Not loud.
Not crashing.
Not the kind of arrival that breaks things
just to prove you were there.

You came like dusk.
Like something already known
but never noticed before.
You were the hush after a poem,
the warmth of a mug held between both hands,
the moon rising
because it simply couldn’t stay hidden
any longer.

And suddenly,
my solitude had stars in it.
My quiet had a second breath.
And I—
I was no longer the whole sky.
But I was still me.
Only softer.
Only brighter.

Only more.