
I Sit in Silence
I think of you the way fruit thinks of summer, inevitably, without impatience, accepting sweetness as a form of waiting.
The collection

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.

When you were with me, you spoke more honestly, laughed more freely, as if you knew even then it wouldn’t last forever, loved more bravely, and believed, if only for a while, that tenderness could survive in this world.

Perhaps one evening, when the blue hour has fallen like a soft cloak over our shoulders, we will find ourselves in that quiet center, the sacred hinge between day and night where breath takes the shape of prayer.

If you come my way, you do not choose me, you choose you, the you that has been calling from deep inside the dust, the you that has waited like a slow dawn unfurling behind the fog.

A man fights many things in his life, but the river inside him is not one to break with fists. You watch it. You learn the shape of its current. You drink your coffee and breathe.

I cannot decide whether I am following you or being followed by the thought of you, but the distance between us shrinks and stretches like a corridor that refuses to stay one shape.

I am only a man learning to love you the way the world loves the seasons: completely, hopelessly, forever.

You are the serenity that travelers mistake for chance, the whisper a forest keeps in the folds of its leaves. There is a constellation tucked into your gaze, a patient flame, not burning, but glowing, like a truth that refuses to shout.