"The Gravity of You

"The Gravity of You"

A poem about the love that lives in ordinary moments

I did not fall in love the way they write about in books,

No thunderclap, no lightning strike, no overwhelmed and shook.

It came the way the morning comes — so quietly, so slow,

A light that fills the corners up before you even know.

It started with a simple thing, the way you said my name,

Not loud, not with intention, just — and nothing was the same.

I tried to put it somewhere safe, some drawer inside my chest,

But love is not a folded note, it will not stay compressed.

I watched you from a distance first, the way you moved through space,

The way a room would shift somehow whenever you'd find your place.

You never tried to own the air, you simply let it be,

And somehow in that quietness, you made more room for me.

I told myself it wasn't real, just admiration, fine,

Just something passing through my mind like clouds across a skyline.

But clouds don't leave you breathless, clouds don't make you rearrange

The furniture inside your heart, don't make the familiar strange.

Love is not the grand gesture, not the roses at the door,

Not the perfect words rehearsed at night and spoken on the floor.

It's smaller than the songs suggest, and deeper than the sea,

It's 3am and thinking of the person they could be.

It's watching someone struggle and not trying to fix it fast,

It's holding space for someone's storm and hoping you will last.

It's choosing them on ordinary days when nothing's new or bright,

When love is just a quiet choice you make to hold on tight.

I loved you in the silences, the pauses, and the gaps,

In all the conversations lost and all the missed perhaps.

I loved you when you doubted and I loved you when you shone,

I loved you in the crowded room, I loved you when alone.

There is a kind of loving that the poets rarely name,

That lives not in the victories but somewhere in the plain,

That doesn't ask for monuments or echoes down the hall,

That loves you most completely when it isn't known at all.

They say that love should make you whole, complete you like a song,

But I think love is learning how to carry what is wrong,

To see a person fully — every fracture, every scar —

And choose to stay beside them, love them fully as they are.

You are not perfect, neither am I, neither is this thing,

But imperfection held with care is worth the suffering.

I'd rather have an honest love with edges, rough and real,

Than something smooth and polished that has nothing left to feel.

And maybe love is just this —

the returning, every time,

to someone who has seen your worst

and called it still sublime.

Not because they didn't see

the cracks along your wall,

but because they looked at all of it

and chose to love it all.

So I will keep on choosing you

in every quiet way,

not with fanfare, not with fireworks,

just — every single day.

For love is not a destination

you arrive at and you're done,

it's the walking side by side together,

two becoming one.

So here I am, still standing at the edge of what we are,

Not close enough to call it home, not distant enough to scar.

Just loving you the only way I know how to begin —

With patience and with openness and letting the light in.

If you should ever wonder if this love of mine is true,

Look at all the ways I stay, look at all I do.

Not in the grand declarations written large across the sky,

But in the way I'm still here now — and that is my reply.