u/lajjibolala22

On a Sunday afternoon

we get a bit drunk

not enough to forget who we are

just enough to stop thinking about everything else

And we end up making love on the couch

slow...like we’ve got nowhere else to be

Then we end up in bed

maybe you lead, maybe I do

I honestly don’t remember

I just remember stumbling into the sheets

laughing

already all over each other

We lie there

arms and legs everywhere

covers slipping off

your warmth against me

afternoon sun peeking through the windows

making everything look gold

I read you a poem

I wrote for you

And you listen

Not really to the words

but to the way my voice changes

when I get to the parts

I was too nervous to say out loud

Your fingers find mine

then drift slowly

tracing the places

where my skin still remembers you

leaving little shivers behind

You kiss my shoulder

I lose my place

You smile

And suddenly

the poem stops being about you

It’s about this

the quiet after wanting

the softness after being hungry for someone

the weird tender feeling

of being known

without having to explain anything

Outside the world keeps going

Cars pass....

People fall in love....

break each other’s hearts

But here

in this sunlit room

your fingers are tangled with mine

my head is on your chest

and for once

I don’t want anything else

the world could offer

just this Sunday afternoon

a little drunk

a little undone

your skin on mine

my poem between us

and the slightly scary thought

that maybe

I could get used to being loved!

Eight billion souls turning beneath the same sky

Half of them.. men

Of those... roughly half around my age

Being generous... perhaps half are good people

Half of those...good men

Half again...capable of loving

without possession, of staying without settling, of choosing kindness when no one is watching

Half might find me beautiful

Some I might linger over too

Most would remain the brief geometry of strangers

a shoulder in a station, a glance through glass, a name never spoken aloud

And even then... timing would split the numbers again..

a city too far... a season too early...a wound too fresh..

a heart still facing elsewhere else

Until coincidence begins to resemble intention

Until possibility wears itself thin enough for a single outline to appear

Not inevitable

Not destined

Simply improbable enough

that.. against every quiet subtraction

there is you

the fraction that refused to disappear

The one who feels less like the answer to a calculation

and more like the beautiful remainder that statistics could never account for