Ink

Somewhere in the world she is opening toward me
the same way I am opening toward her.

We don't know each other's names yet.

But something in her life is making room
and something in mine is making room
and life is quietly carrying us
into our earned bloom.

And when we get there —
a scent I know before I name it,
a laugh that pulls something awake in my spine —

I won't be polite about it.

I'll look at her the way I look at her —
fully, warmly, without apology —
and something in her will answer
not with words
but with the way her body turns toward mine
half a degree
before she knows she's done it.

Eros will wake between us
the way heat rises from summer stone.

And we'll both feel it
and neither of us will flinch.

And then — the breathing.

The long slow breath
of having arrived.

I can look at all my parts
and leave every door in the house open.
She can look at all of hers
and the room holds.

We are easy with each other
the way children are easy —
laughing with grass-stained knees,
forgetting to be careful.

She calls me toward what I'd avoid alone.
I call her toward what she'd circle around.
A warm hand on the back
pointing at the open door.

And the days get lighter
because we carry them laughing.

I will touch her hair and she will stay.
She will say something ordinary and I'll feel home.
Her laugh will start low and I'll feel it in my own belly.

We won't explain this to each other.
We'll just keep showing up —
morning, evening, Tuesday, Sunday —
and each time her eyes will find mine
across whatever room we're in
and we'll both know
and we'll both grin.

This is the warmth I already carry
meeting the warmth she already carries

and the spark between us
that has no intention of behaving.