Wild Sky
I did not know love could feel this way,
like a river that forgets its source
and still keeps running,
like sunlight slipping through old curtains
and making even dust look holy.
You walk into the room,
and the air forgets it was ever ordinary.
Every glass of water tastes sweeter
after your name has crossed my mouth.
Every silence grows soft,
as if it was meant to be shared.
I want to memorize the curve of your laughter,
the stubborn tilt of your chin,
the way your eyes refuse to lie
even when your lips pretend.
I want to sit with you in all the small hours
when the city is half-asleep,
when only stray dogs and our hearts
are awake enough to wander.
If I could, I’d build a house
out of every word you’ve given me,
a roof from your kindness,
a floor from your secrets,
walls from the moments
you thought no one was watching.
I would live there forever,
content with nothing but your breath
echoing down the hallways.
And yet, love is not possession.
You are not mine.
You are the wild sky,
and I am only lucky enough
to keep looking up.
Still, if you asked,
I’d cross oceans barefoot,
hold storms in my palms,
burn through a thousand winters
just to place one quiet kiss
on the corner of your tired smile.
