First and Last

Before memory,

before the world had light,

you were the warmth behind my wanting—

a presence that etched the dark

into a lines of you

At seven, I felt the shape of absence

and mistook it for loneliness.

At thirteen, I whispered vows

as if you might hear them

through the walls of time.

At eighteen, I saved a place beside me

in case you appeared,

unannounced

but already known.

At twenty, I searched slowly,

tuning my life

to the frequency I hoped was yours.

Now I’m forty-six,

and the waiting has stopped moving.

You are here.

You’re not what I hoped for.

You’re what I always knew—

but couldn’t say without losing it.

If you think I was meant

for anything else,

you misunderstand

how long I’ve been carrying your name

without language.

You are not a choice.

You are the still point

beneath every restless turn.

You are the first presence

I ever leaned toward

without knowing why.

And you are the last—

the only one

whose nearness completes me

without needing to ask why.

And I will speak to you for hours,

night after night,

as if love itself

were unfolding through my voice—

drawing poems from the quiet

between our breaths,

until the stars forget our names,

and even time lets go of us.