The Speed of Steady
This is the second poem in the All the Ways I Love You series—a countdown to my husband’s birthday, one poem at a time.
It happened fast.
You moved in before the dust even settled—
your things beside mine
like they’d always belonged there.
No hesitations.
No maybes.
Just yes.
By the second month,
you were inviting my mother to stay—
on a one-way ticket,
no end date in sight.
You made room for the people I loved
like it was instinct.
Like home was always meant to hold more.
Love came at three months.
Not with fireworks,
but with the quiet certainty
of a door closing behind you
and knowing
you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
We’ve built from that moment.
Years on years.
A foundation that doesn’t crack,
doesn’t question.
Just holds.
We’ve crossed oceans.
Waded into far-off places
with sunscreen and wonder in our hands.
We’ve floated over the Great Barrier Reef,
stood where Castaway was filmed,
watched crocodiles launch themselves from the water
like dancers with teeth.
(It’s always the locals who get too close.)
We’ve seen stars from both hemispheres.
Heard waves in accents not our own.
Touched the edges of the map
and still found our way
back to each other.
It’s only been years—
but also, somehow,
forever.
The speed of us
was never chaos.
It was clarity.
It was a compass
spinning to true.
And all this time—
whether days or decades—
has felt like the same kind of beautiful.
