the gravity of quiet things

when i held you,
it felt like the earth had folded inward—
as if the sky took a breath, paused,
and placed itself gently
between the spaces of my fingers.

the weight of you
was not mass, but meaning.
not heaviness, but history—
like every moment i’d ever waited for
without knowing what i waited for
was quietly preparing to arrive
in the shape of your touch.

when i looked into your eyes,
i didn’t just see the universe—
i saw the part of it
that had been missing in mine.
not stars or galaxies,
but the dark matter that holds them together.
the unseen glue,
the stillness between explosions.
you were the silence that made the music make sense.

i never knew i could feel this deep—
not like falling,
but like remembering
that the ocean exists
even when i’m on land.
that love is not something we find,
but something that wakes up
when the right voice calls it by name.

before you,
i was a library of unopened pages.
dust in the spine,
words waiting for breath.
you read me
like i was written just for you—
and suddenly,
i was real.

and maybe one day,
you’ll forget how tightly we once fit.
maybe the world will keep spinning
as if we never met.
but somewhere,
somewhere deep in the quiet machinery of existence,
a subtle shift will remain.

because once,
for a moment that felt like forever,
i didn’t just hold you—
i held everything