Uncaught
The room forgets its edges
when you move,
everything softening
into something I can almost hold.
There’s a quiet kind of gravity in you,
not heavy,
just enough
to keep me from drifting too far.
I don’t look directly,
I don’t think I could,
only the way the dimness gathers
and something warmer
threads through it,
like light learning how to bloom
without breaking the dark.
You turn,
and it follows,
that hush of shadow and glow,
folding into itself
like a secret I’m not meant to name.
I stay where I am,
pretending stillness,
while everything in me
moves with you.
And then,
something almost happens.
A softness at the edge of you,
barely there,
like a thought you didn’t mean to show,
like warmth slipping through
before you can quiet it.
You catch it,
or try to,
tucking it back into silence,
as if it never belonged
to the light at all.
But I saw it.
Not fully,
not enough to claim,
just the way it lingered
for a breath too long,
glowing faintly
inside the dark
like something golden
that didn’t mean
to be found.