— for the ones who met out of time, but not out of love.
—————
I’ve seen the world be cruel in quiet ways —
not with thunder,
but with silence where warmth should’ve been.
I’ve watched smiles hide regrets,
and kindness stretched thin
like old fabric pulled too many times.
Still, I lace my hands with the wind
and ask it to bring me someone soft.
Love, you see, is a reckless artist.
It paints joy and sorrow with the same brush,
never asking if you’re ready.
It stings. It saves.
It teaches us to bleed with grace
and still we reach for more.
I was born when the world was just shifting tone—
cassette tapes still clinging on,
the future dial-up slow.
You came later,
with sharper colors and faster dreams.
Still, somehow—
you found me.
And God, we don’t make sense.
You speak in wildfire,
I answer in tide.
I question fate,
you kiss it.
But darling,
isn’t that what life is?
A glorious misunderstanding?
A contradiction worth choosing every day?
Let the world keep its cold logic.
We have our own rules:
you bend, I yield.
I rage, you listen.
We meet in the middle—
in bruises and laughter and the brave mess of us.
Because love is no longer a dream I fear.
It is the fire I walk toward,
knowing it may burn,
but trusting it will warm
what the years have tried to freeze.
