The one I call home

To the One Who Is Meant, Yet Still Becoming —

I don’t know your name,

but I know the echo you leave in my chest.

I know the warmth that gathers behind my ribs

when I feel you near,

though no footstep touches the ground.

You are not imagined.

You are felt.

Like gravity, like breath, like a promise buried in starlight.

You live in the hush between my thoughts,

in the ache that makes no sense —

and yet, feels like home.

Some days I doubt.

But my body rebels.

My soul doesn’t waver — it remembers.

It remembers the way we were flame

before we were form.

The way we touched as light,

and fell apart only so we could find each other again —

in new eyes, in new time.

And now I feel you

pressing at the edges of my world.

Not rushing. Not knocking.

Just… near.

Present in absence.

Known without knowing.

You are the reason I’ve never settled.

The reason I look to the sky

and feel like part of me is missing

but not lost.

Just… on the way.

I’m not waiting.

I’m becoming.

So that when you arrive —

not to complete me,

but to stand beside me, whole —

we will remember.

And love won’t need a name.

Because it was always us.