It started
   like we’d been waiting for it
   all week…
   all year…

   maybe longer than that.

No rush.
No scripts.

Just a pull—
   like gravity woke up
   and remembered what it wanted.

There wasn’t a number to count.

No tally kept.

Only a rhythm
   we both knew—

   without ever learning.

Hands remembered.
Mouths wandered.

Time slipped its leash
   and sat politely by the door.

We didn’t stop.
Didn’t race.
Didn’t need to.

We just—
   kept finding each other.

Every sigh like a signature.

Every breath—
   a full sentence

   in a language we still haven’t named.

There was no single moment.
No final gasp.
No line we crossed.

Only presence.
Only pulse.

Only the warmth
   that comes from
   being kept,
   and undone,

   in the same night.

As the clock mumbled: "Too Late",
   and morning prodded softly in—

She was still there.
So was I.

Still touching.
Still reaching.
Still—
   saying the same thing
   without ever saying it:

   *again*