I drift—
untethered, weightless,
a leaf carried by the wind,
lost without direction.
Then you,
like gravity, like light,
pull me back,
steady hands tracing constellations
on my skin,
turning chaos into compass points.
Be my correction,
the map where I find home.
For rightfully so, I see it—
not with reason,
but with the quiet knowing
that I was always meant
to find you.