I sat with history in my palm, the outline of the titles raised text against my fingers. The spine bound without a crease and in this pause I remain. I’ve written pages of words, descriptive insights of feelings past and repetition can’t explain what I feel for you.

It wasn’t in an instant that you became the waters down the mountainside, your presence in my mind defines this. How you flow now, like mist rising, like moonlight through the woodland canopy.

You are these pages, stories that unfold when you speak, the narrator on the path between the horizon and my heart.