We began as two names on a glowing screen, two strangers talking bright and keen. A tossed hello, a laugh that stayed, a small, silly fate we made.
I don’t know which line bent time our way, which joke, which smile, which thing you’d say; somewhere between “how was your day?” my careful heart went slightly astray.
I called you Mr. Stardust, before I fully knew, how well that single word fits on you, that quiet gleam inside your gaze, the hush you bring to noisy days.
When we met, at last, with months behind, with all that talking pre-designed. Without any choreographed cue or staged surprise, only quiet recognition in your eyes. With the tender, sure shock of something true; I already felt at home in you.
We never drew a starting line, no magnificent “this is the moment” sign; love simply entered, still and sure, unhurried, certain, meant to endure. By the time we named it, it had grown, as if it had always known.
We are steady, you and I, through most days, calm in our circles, warm in our ways, two happy people holding the world… with responsible hands, paying the bills, making the plans. But when it’s just us, the script comes loose, we turn into chaos on a soft excuse.
We ‘twin’ in thoughts, mid-sentence grins, private punchlines, ridiculous spins, two rational adults, allegedly sane, who still dance in the kitchen without refrain. It’s messy, unfiltered, and oddly precise, like living in laughter seasoned with spice.
In all we’ve built, here’s what stays; I love how we shape our days, how we keep becoming, year by year, both more ourselves and more sincere.
If I could go back to that first tiny light, that simple message on an ordinary night, I’d choose you now as I did then, again, again, and yet again.
From my heart to yours, then, now, and more, you are the life I was looking for.
I’ve spent years walking past faces in a blur, nodding at shadows, never asking who they were. Some hid storms under smiles they loaned to the day, some held small heartbreaks tucked safely away. And one slow moment let the truth come through, I wasn’t blind to people, simply blind to what they carried too.
A dandelion cracked through the stone, No garden, no gardener, grown alone. It didn’t wait for spring, just did its small thing. That’s hope, finding home on its own.
Some days I’m a panda, it’s true, Snack, nap, then scroll for a view or two. My deadlines all roar, While I’m munching for more, And promise tomorrow will do.
When life kicks hard and never asks, Art hands out helmets and silly masks. And when bills pile up like angry mail, We doodle wings and possibly learn to sail. If life’s a soup we did not choose, Let art be the breadstick we dip and use.
My mind’s a 24/7 newsroom, breaking panic, coming soon. Headlines read, You messed up again! It’s both the anchor and the weatherman.
The forecast says cloudy with a chance of doubt, with scattered thoughts all hanging out. Confidence called, saying, “Can’t today.” Overthinking’s working overtime anyway.
Yes, my brain’s a browser, twelve tabs wide, one plays music I can’t find. Another’s buffering future fears, rest just navigate through unpaid arrears.
And that’s when she walks in. All polite, dramatic, and oddly kind; calls herself Lady Maybe, the queen of the restless mind.
She alters my calm in her signature style, says, “Let’s worry together, just a while…?” Pours old regrets in porcelain cups, and sighs, “Sweet memories, bottoms up.”
She sings while scrolling through my head, reviving ancient things I thought were dead. Utters, “Peace is nice, but slightly bland, try chaos; made fresh, by hand.”
My thoughts run marathons indoors, collecting medals for “what if” wars. Even my quiet has commitment issues, Folding itself like unused tissues.
I count my breaths, they count me back. We both lose track…imagine that! I smile at the mess. What else to do? My mind’s a maze that loves the view.
Today, I’m not trying to get anywhere. The sidewalk outside the café is warm enough to hold me. The chair tilts back a little like a tender sigh.
Steam rises from the cup, curling like a slow thought. The noise and the footsteps fade into a blur around me.
My mind slips out of its cage, drifting past lists, clocks, calendars, all the neat fences I usually build around my days. Like a leaf carried by the air.
October light gathers at my feet. It's gentle, gold, and unassuming. For once, I’m not chasing anything or rushing anywhere. I’m just here.
You must’ve written as if your words would circle only your own people, as if your sentences belonged to the time you lived in.
How could you have known that one day they would travel through wars, through oceans, slip past flags and accents, through tongues you never heard…and find me?
You did not picture this face, this body bent over your pages, my palms moving through the paper like someone trying to steady a tremor.
You wrote for your grief, your questions, your small, stubborn hope.
You could not know that I would lean into your words for balance, that your grief would mirror mine, that your hope would stitch a seam across my breaking.
And yet, those very lines became a language I could survive inside and a window I could look through.
When the season stayed hard as frost, your pages were the first thaw. When I cracked like dry soil, your words poured enough rain.
You will never see who I became because of you. But here I am. Another life your words reached without knowing; a continuation of your sentence.
Accidental Epiphanies 