Aftersun
Sometimes,
the less real you make something,
the more it stays.
You appeared without distance—
no long road, no warning—
just there,
as if you had always been.
Quiet in your beauty,
unaware of it.
Your hair—
moving like something painted,
alive only when I looked long enough.
Your eyes—
gold catching light,
like leaves held in water,
like something I could step into
and never reach the bottom.
Your touch—
warmth that lingered,
a softness with a spark inside it.
And your voice—
low, kind—
the kind that makes the world
feel less sharp.
I thought:
no one has ever been this beautiful.
Not in the ways that matter.
—
Time changed around us.
Mornings came easier—
your face,
half-lit,
half-dreaming.
My hands learning
the language of you
without asking.
It felt simple—
loving you.
Like something I had always known
but never practiced.
—
I almost laughed in museums—
afraid they’d take you,
frame you,
name you permanent.
Because what else do we do
with things that feel too rare?
We try to keep them.
—
Summer stretched into fall.
Nights softened.
Mornings carried weight.
I was becoming someone—
quieter in the right ways,
stronger in the places I used to hide.
You made space for that.
For me.
And I filled it—
with plans,
with care,
with the illusion
that building something meant
it would last.
—
We lived in small rituals—
pumpkins on the counter,
music humming through the walls,
flour on our hands.
Not the candles,
not the steam in the shower—
but the half-drawn blinds,
light slipping in just enough—
that’s where I felt it most:
home,
without needing to say it.
—
If every thought of you
were a flower,
I would never leave that garden.
You were a sunrise—
not sudden,
but certain.
The kind that doesn’t ask
if you’re ready.
—
The quiet shift.
The way presence becomes memory
before you realize it’s happening.
I learned—too late—
that love doesn’t keep anything.
It only holds it
for a while.
—
Losing you didn’t feel like loss
at first.
It felt like understanding.
Like something too bright
finally returning
to where it belonged.
—
Still—
you changed me.
In ways that stayed.
In ways that ask something of me
even now.
Each morning,
I used to wonder
how to make your world softer.
Now,
I wake with the same question—
just without you in it.
—
And someday—
I know this—
I’ll light a lavender candle,
watch the flame steady itself,
and think of your eyes—
always your eyes—
still holding light
I was lucky enough
to stand inside.