i’m no writer, but

im no writer, but when it comes to silent evenings, a flock of birds passing above on a cloudy october day with just the right amount of sun shining through a branch, your body covering the rays, the pages of the book i am reading moving in sync with the light autumn air, the bookmark flying away without a worry, a distant clatter of the kitchen cups heard from where we are sitting, our evening tea being readied, our playlist playing in the background, or better, your warm voice filling the air, our hands closer than ever before, your shoulder next to mine, you breathing in and out while you narrate how you saved yet another life with those brave and magical hands that have seen and known more, while i look at you in awe, listening to each line like a tale never heard of before, wondering about the prayers i made to get to see this face and hear this voice everyday, to be so near to it, i wonder how did i get this lucky, to be in company of a heart as warm as yours and a soul as radiating as the one you carried inside for all these years. im no writer but in hope of moments like these, i think i become one.