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I’ve written of heartbreaks that tore through paper and silences that tasted like old wounds,

but no poem prepared me for the way his smile simply... stayed.

Not loud, not demanding just soft, like it knew exactly where to rest in me.

It didn’t pass by. It held. It kept. It remained.

And that dimple fresh as the first morning after grief lifts

showed up like a memory I had never lived but always missed.

He has dimples like commas in a sentence that should’ve ended,

but didn’t because something beautiful interrupted.

He smiles, and something in my chest forgets how to carry weight.

He looks away, shy, swallowing down his words with a mouth too sincere to pretend.

And oh, the way his throat shifts gently with each swallowed silence

as if his nervousness knew silence was sacred, and dared not disturb it.

Sometimes he swallows like he’s hiding a whole poem behind his lips,

and I find myself waiting... like a devotee waits for an unspoken blessing.

No performance. No pride. Just a boy too gentle for this noisy world.

And I who once worshipped ink and metaphors

found myself worshipping him,

not because he asked,

but because even his hesitation felt like truth I could trust.

He didn’t try to make me his.

But in the quiet where his smile met my undoing

I already was.

I didn’t write this to tell you I love you just to admit how much of me still listens when you’re gone.