It wasn’t fireworks,
not the kind they write about in cheap paperbacks,
not some goddamn symphony of crashing violins
or the way the moon is supposed to weep for lovers.

No, it was quieter than that.

It was you, half asleep,
one bare leg hooked over mine,
the rise and fall of your breath
against my ribs like the tide, steady, indifferent.

It was the way you left coffee rings on my table
without apology,
the way your fingers slid into my palm
without hesitation,
like a bird landing on a branch
not to ask permission,
but because it belongs there.

I watched you once,
pulling your hair into a loose knot,
cigarette hanging from your lips,
and I swear to whatever lousy god
still laughs at men like me,
I could’ve died right then,
and it would’ve been alright.

Because love isn’t the screaming kind,
not always, not when it’s real.
It’s the small, stupid things:
the way you forget where you left your keys,
the way your laugh ruins a quiet room,
the way your body fits against mine
like the world might end,
but not before the next breath,
not before the next morning,
not before one more cup of coffee
between us.

And when you wake,
stretching, blinking,
your lips chapped, your voice still
rasping against the weight of dreams,
you’ll look at me like I matter—
not like a hero, not like a savior,
but like a man who simply
got lucky enough
to find a place to rest his bones.

And that’s enough.
That’s all love ever really is.