We move like quiet furniture, soft against the floor, Your laugh a paper lantern, drifting through the door. There’s a map of small confessions pinned above the chair, I trace the outlines of the days you let me share. Slow as wine, slow as a Tuesday, I fold your mornings into mine. Hold me in the half-light, where the city forgets to shout, We speak in simpler language, love that’s honest, then we doubt. Promise me, in hush and hush, forever fits between two breaths — In the half-light, love is plenty; in the half-light, nothing left. You keep a single photograph of rain against your skin, We keep our hands in pockets, learning how to begin. There’s music in the kettle, rhythm in the key, Every ordinary hour teaches me how to be. Soft as newsprint, soft as the weather, I fold your mornings into mine together. Hold me in the half-light, while the rest of the world turns loud, We trade the grander stories for the small ones, thin and proud. Promise me, in crooked smiles, in the quiet we have kept — In the half-light, love is honest; in the half-light, we are kept. Say the word I never say aloud; I’ll write it on your palm. We’ll count the syllables like heartbeats, slow and calm. If the night decides to fracture, we will gather up the stars, Stitch them into sleeves and pockets — worn-out sleeves, beloved scars. Hold me in the half-light — hold the edges of my name, We are small and we are certain, burning steady, not to blame. Promise me, not perfect lines, but promises that bend and stay — In the half-light, love is everything the daylight will delay. Close the blinds, keep the streetlight — let the world forget the noise, We will count the tiny mercies, the untidy, patient joys. I will fold your mornings into mine until the evening mends, In the half-light, in the half-light — loving like a friend.
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