A Small Physics

Something older than language has taken hold of me. I have tried, unsuccessfully, to locate the origin of this pull. Optimism is a condition of his existence, or how the mind moves in application He speaks, and the world is less theoretical. He listens, and the world is less hostile. Time does not pass cleanly in his vicinity. Seconds stretch and resist, layering themselves one over the other until the moment no longer feels singular. Disarmament festers in how easily I am undone by him, the silencing of a system long accustomed to vigilance. I forget the necessity of precision. Even speech betrays me coherence itself has become unnecessary. We exist, frequently, in what should amount to nothing: conversations that dissolve as quickly as they are formed, exchanges without consequence, yet I leave them altered, meaning smuggled quietly into the trivial. And then, we descend into depth, into questions that summon the soul to reckoning. I feel the compass of your eyes tracing me across days I do not share with you, their shape and weight so exact they could hold the world without effort. Everyone I encounter already knows you, as if your soul has been rehearsing its benevolence in rooms you have never entered through me. The flaws you carry do not read as damage here. They are asymmetries in a design too precise to be accidental, imperfections that refuse correction because they are the very geometry that makes you hold.