Presence

Last night, no searching, no symbols—
just her,
steady as breath,
warm as morning light before the world wakes.

No dream-messenger,
no folded signs.
Only the quiet truth of her presence,
the way love feels when it has arrived
and stayed.

Her hand near mine—
not clinging, just there,
like something the soul recognizes
before thought can argue.

She softens the sharp edges,
lends calm to the noise,
fills rooms I once walked through
with echo and ache.

I woke not yearning to return,
but grateful to rise—
because sleep did not promise me anything
I don’t already hold.

I once prayed for a love like this.
Now I simply turn,
and she is there—
and I am living the dream
I used to ask the night to give me.

By: Esker