I knew you first by the air you changed.
The way morning sharpened
when you stepped into it.
The hills held their breath.
So did I.

You smelled of something dark and green—
not flowers,
not fruit,
but the patience of things that stay standing
through winters without witnesses.

When you laughed, warmth traveled.
Not fire—
the promise of it.
Like bark remembering sun.

Your mouth carried brightness
that didn't ask to be sweet.
It cut the afternoon clean,
left the light ringing.

You moved with the confidence of roots,
certain without explaining.
I followed,
because the ground did.

At dusk, spice and shadow mixed—
heat without noise,
a softness learned far away
and brought back carefully,
as if it might break.

When you lay beside me
the world went powder-quiet.
Stone cooled.
Time loosened its grip.

I could not tell where you ended
and the land began.
Only that the air stayed altered
long after you rose.

If this is love,
it is not possession.
It is weather remembering
where it once passed through.