The Match

I never learned to raise a glass,

but when you walked into the room,

everyone was celebrating something,

something no one had words for.

I stood at the edge and you thought

I was admiring the view —

I was counting all the ways

I could talk myself out of the fall.

When you speak, the air forgets to wait.

Not because you rush —

But everything around you knows

It can't keep up, at best.

Every charm I've ever owned

goes quiet in your hands.

The words I've polished smooth for years

come out like scattered sand.

I tried to keep up —

in meetings, in messages,

in gestures I thought spoke louder

than anything I'd dare to say.

Every language I tried was wrong.

You sent me something once.

I held it close for days,

not because I couldn't understand,

But every line was a looking glass,

I wasn't quite ready to face.

You carry something bright, some flame

I still can't seem to name,

But standing close, my steady hands

Forget the rules of every game.

You ask me why I never cross the room.

I'm standing at a table full of cups,

each one holding your reflection —

Afraid if I reached for the right,

The rest would come undone.

If brilliance wears a face like yours,

Then what's the one I've worn?

If tenderness can cut this deep,

What good's a silence, sworn?

They say the stars don't know they're burning —

that the light we see

left home a thousand years ago

and still has somewhere to go.

I think of that

when the dark gets very still,

and the only thing that makes it worth the dark

is knowing something's out there,

bright enough to not need saying.

But I won't tell you.

Because if I did,

You'd turn with that relentless grace

And tell me, gently, without shame,

That this still isn't quite the place.

And you'd be right. It isn't quite.

But darling, it's the hand I've got,

Every clumsy card I own,

Played badly, but without a blot.