In the Margins of Our Every Day

A letter to my lover

You are the stillness in my storm,
the quiet place where my soul exhales,
the warmth I reach for
when life turns to winter.



You are home--
where every mask slips softly from my
skin, and the rawest part of me
is free to speak,
to simply be.



You smooth the edges that pain left jagged,
you lift the light in me buried deep.
With you, I am known
in ways I never dared to hope.



Time is thief when I'm with you
The hours vanish--
still, it is not enough.
Even skin to skin,
I long to be closer, than closeness allows.



You were formed for me, and I for you--
not as halves, but as answers,
as mirrored calls across the dark.



And this love--
it grows, it deepens, it breathes,
an unfolding masterpiece,
written in the margins of our every day.