Not the candle wick,
but the light it spills—
soft, impermanent,
still clinging to darkness,
dancing close enough to warm.
Not the table,
but the weight of your hands on it,
leaving the smallest mark,
a stain of belonging.
Not the words,
but the way they hang in the air
between breaths,
caught in the quiet,
naming nothing but the now.
Not all you have,
but the glimmer of holding,
the delicate pull and release,
as if all this were enough,
as if this were always
enough.
