To the One Who Speaks in Sunlight

You are the hush between heartbeats—
the soft golden space where the world forgets to ache.
When I am near you, the storms in my chest quiet.
The stars above tilt closer, listening. You are not loud, you do not shout your love—
but it blooms around you like fields of sunflowers
facing always toward something warmer, something divine. Your voice is the wind that hums across wild grass,
a lullaby for the worn and wandering.
And I— I am always wandering until I find you again. Your touch is the stillness between crashing waves,
the breath before a prayer is whispered,
the way time bends gently when it knows something sacred has entered the room. In you, I see sunlight laying lazy across open fields,
the kind of peace that doesn’t demand attention
but commands it anyway, because it is so rare, so holy. There is not a part of you I do not love.
Not a glance, not a word, not a silence.
Even the shadows that cling to your ankles are beautiful to me. You carry the calm of the cosmos—
not the coldness, no—
but the still hum of stars that do not need to burn bright to be eternal. I do not need miracles.
I have already found one
in the way your name feels when I say it softly,
like a secret the world is lucky to keep.