You stood where the glass met the storm,
bathed in the hush of a passing sky,
as if the day paused just to watch you—
a breath between thunder and sigh.
The window framed more than the view;
it captured a world half-spoken—
the garden behind you, still and green,
and time itself, gently broken.
Your gaze was not toward the horizon,
but inward, where longing resides.
The silence between us grew velvet,
a river beneath our tides.
Your dress, a prism of forest and shadow,
spoke in a tongue of design—
and though you wore the colors of distance,
you felt dangerously mine.
Had I said a word, just one—
perhaps the clouds would have scattered.
But romance, like rain before falling,
is sweeter when nothing is shattered.