She knows my name

She smells like flowers I already know
but haven't walked through yet.

Something older than both of us
settles in the space between.

And I —
who walked through rooms where love was real
but never fully landed,
who stood inside the beautiful almost
and did not break —

go quiet.

Not because I understand.

Because her body said him.

I want to fall asleep heavy with her.
I want to wake up and the first thing
is her face
and the first feeling
is happiness
that this is not a dream I have to leave.

I want morning skin.
I want her laughter in the kitchen.
I want the ordinary hours
to hold as much as the extraordinary ones.

I want weight.
Not the weight that presses down —
the weight that means
this is here, this is real, this is staying.

And if she stays —
not because I asked,
not because she must —

then something between us
will not need a name.

It will just keep making things.