I love you like the moss loves stone—
softly, and from below.
I do not ask to be noticed.
Only to grow where you’ve been.

You walk like weather,
and I brace for it—
sunlight when I’ve built a life of shade.
But still, I bloom in the places
your voice might have touched.

You are the river
I never learned to swim.
Always near, always moving—
never mine.

I memorize you in seasons:
your laughter in spring,
your distance in winter,
your kindness in summer,
and in autumn—
the way you vanish beautifully.

I speak to you
in the language of leaves,
shivering when you pass by,
but never loud enough
to make you turn.

If I could be anything,
I’d be the sky you don’t notice—
just to hold you
without you ever knowing.

Because love like this
isn’t about having.
It’s about standing still
while your moon
spins silver through someone else’s night.

And I stay the tidepool,
small and quiet and brimming,
waiting for your shadow
like it’s a kind of sunlight.