Becoming

I was fine before.

Good enough.

Moving through days like well-worn routines,
       content,
       maybe—

       but not reaching.

Then she arrived.

Not with fanfare,
    unforced,
        just…
             a presence,
             a shift,
             a quiet hum

        that tuned me to something higher.

Now, chords find my fingers again,
                 my feet move,

                 rucking through
                 morning streets,

                 stretching into shapes
                 I didn't know my body could make.

I dial numbers
    I haven’t called in years,
    just to say hello.

I look up more…
    at strangers,
       the world,

    at all the stories I used to rush past.

She didn’t ask for this.

Didn’t demand change.

Didn’t push.

She just reminded me—
    without ever saying it—

    who I like being best.

And somehow,
    I’ve started…
                 becoming
                 *him*
                 again.