The collection
Sometimes I think we have met already in another arrangement of sorrow, where the stars made no accusations and time did not feed on itself. Here I answer only in silence. What else is left when love arrives as an apparition and asks to be believed? Your voice reaches me from the side of existence…
I only stand here now, in this small crossing of lives, aware that I am late, but not lost. Because something in me recognized something in you as if the universe, despite its endless distance, still knew how to bend two separate paths into a single moment.
I do not come with clever sentences or the language of certainty. I come only with the small trembling truth that appears when someone begins to matter.
When I say I love you time loosens its belt. The past stops arguing, the future leans closer to listen.
Night brings you without apology. You lie beside my thoughts as if you have always belonged there, as if forgetting were a language my body never learned.
I tell myself: stop. Enough ink, enough hunger. Enough reaching across air. But the words do not listen. They spill from me like water from a cracked jar, like poems that learned your name before they learned restraint.
I think of you the way fruit thinks of summer, inevitably, without impatience, accepting sweetness as a form of waiting.
Do not think I exaggerate. Love is exact. It measures the distance between two chairs, counts the seconds between one message and the next, knows precisely how much silence a heart can carry before it breaks like a plate dropped on a kitchen floor.
And here I stand, between house and horizon, between what England has been and what this morning is briefly willing to promise, content to witness, to make no speech grander than this simple fact: The light arrived. It found me ready.