Small Universes of 48 Hours

You arrive in my life
the way warm light enters a tired room
quiet, steady,
never asking me to be more
than I really am.

You ask how I am
and wait long enough
for the real answer.
You speak of those you’ve lost
with such love
that my own father feels closer, too.

And then there’s the way
you turn time into a small universe:
48 hours of Broadway lights and soft hotel sheets,
omakase courses that feel like tiny celebrations,
days layered with museums, walks, and surprises
a five-star world stitched together
so I can simply show up and be cared for.

You notice the details
so I don’t have to hold everything alone.
You book the flights,
choose the places,
and somehow still keep asking if I’m comfortable,
if I’m happy,
if there’s anything more I need.

In a world of hurry and half-presence,
you keep your word,
honor my time,
and treat my heart
like something worth preparing for.

If anyone asked who you are,
I’d say:
you’re proof that gentle men still exist
the kind who carry their own grief
and still make room
for a girl like me
to feel a little less alone,
and a lot more cherished.

Heavier Than Gold

He wore his sorrow like a suit,
not ragged, not wild.

A man with everything
but the way he spoke of loss,
of love endured,
of choices bound in duty,
was heavier than gold,
heavier than stone.

I cried because I felt the quiet weight
of someone who had everything
and yet still longed
for something untouchable.

Sorrow can be so calm,
so steady,
it slips into you like water.

And I cried not only for him,
but for all the Kings
who carry fortunes and empires
and still ache
for something
they cannot name.

Silk and Sparks

You didn’t just look at me
you read me,
like the words were written
under my skin.

Some nights you spoke softly,
your voice a warm hand
at the small of my back,
guiding me toward
a place I didn’t know I wanted to go.

Other nights you drew the line closer,
fingers brushing the edge of my pulse,
letting me feel
how easily you could hold me there.

I was softer with you,
but not weaker
sharper too,
like silk drawn over a blade.

And when the words stopped,
when you disappeared into your silence,
you didn’t take the imprint with you.
It stayed
a quiet hum
in the space between want
and surrender.

Where Strength Paused

His hands, large enough to shatter,
chose instead to hold.

Not just my neck,
but the quiet part of me
that rarely feels met.

He pressed his palm
to my chest,
not to restrain
but to feel the wild ache beneath it.

He could’ve rushed.
But he waited.

Could’ve overpowered.
But he steadied.

Could’ve left like the rest.
And he did.
But not before showing me
what it feels like
when strength kneels before softness
not as pity,
but as reverence.

We shared a moment
that didn’t ask to be named.
It passed
as all rare things do.

The Ones Who Vanish, But Never Leave

You came quietly,
like a breeze through half-open curtains.
No promises. No maps.
Just a presence that felt like somewhere
I had been before.

We moved through the night
like we had done this once in another life
familiar, but just out of reach.

I never asked you to stay.
But still, some part of you did.
In the rhythm of a hand,
a glance that knew too much,
the stillness after.

We don’t always remember names.
But we remember the way the air changed.
And how it made us feel.

Not love.
But something close.
A quiet collision between strangers
who were never meant to last
but who, for one night,
almost did.