My Raw Unscripted Life

The sun began with the sound of your name,
A morning spark, a gentle flame.
Before the rush, before the light,
He pulled you close to end the night.
But the truest gift was the evening phone,
When the day was long and the seeds were sown.

He didn’t call for a show or a thrill,
Or to find a void he needed to fill.
He was tired and hungry, worn to the bone,
Seeking a rhythm he couldn’t find alone.
No search for a name or a map on a screen,
Just the shared “you and I” in the space in between.

It isn’t a knot that’s tangled and tight,
Or a frantic reach in the middle of night.
It’s the over and under, the steady design,
Where his daily life starts to tangle with thine.
Not a patch or a scrap or a temporary mend,
But a beautiful weave that has no end.

The “us” is the fabric, the “we” is the floor,
You aren’t a guest knocking soft at his door.
In the tired “hello” and the way that he spoke,
The pattern is set in each silver stroke.
So settle your heart and let the breath out,
This is the rhythm that silences doubt.