Becoming Real

Your gaze lands.

It doesn’t drift.

It doesn’t wonder.

It lands.

As if the room existed for this

and was waiting to be used.

You don’t blink too often.

You don’t soften the edge.

There’s no invitation,

only arrival.

I meet it.

Not out of confidence—

out of instinct.

Like something old in me

wakes up to match it.

You don’t ask anything.

But everything I am

organizes itself

as if you did.

There is no search in your expression.

Just knowledge.

Like I had already been seen

long before you arrived.

I do not become more.

I do not become less.

I become exact.

You reduce the world

to what matters.

Not with force.

Not with beauty.

But with totality.

And in that moment,

there is nothing else to do.

Nowhere else to be.

Just you

looking at me—

and everything

becoming real.