It begins with silence,
not with thunder,
but with a glance held
just a second too long.

The first page
is written with breath,
in the space between
reaching and retreating.

There are no perfect lines,
only crossing-out,
ink smudged by hands
that tremble sometimes.

You write me,
I write you,
not in chapters
but in pauses,
in the way we stay
when leaving would be easier.

Love is not a finished story,
just a manuscript-
unfinished,
unfolding,
still warm
from being held.