Hovering
Before the world had shape or name,
when everything was wild water and waiting,
something hovered—
patient, purposeful—
breathing order into the deep,
breathing the promise that would repeat.
It came again that afternoon, the shades half-drawn,
slanting light the color of mercy—
golden, warm, cascading in beams
that pooled on the floor like something holy,
like grace that doesn't ask for anything back—
and there I lay on my back, frozen in despair,
tears streaming down my temples into my hair.
He found me there, sobbing,
my body shaking like the surface of some ancient sea,
and he didn't speak.
Didn't try to still me with words
or pull me upright into composure.
He just leaned over.
His fingers finding the space between my shoulder blades—
not to lift, not to fix,
just to rest there, warm and sure,
as my screams exploded muffled against his chest,
his hoodie darkened with my tears.
His breath against my neck,
steady as a tide that knows its rhythm.
The cancer eating through him,
the terminal certainty coiled in his cells,
and still—he was the calm one.
Still, he hovered.
The duvet rippled beneath us
like a meadow breathing,
and slowly, slowly,
my chaos learned to quiet.
A year later, someone tells me:
swan. His spirit animal was swan.
I don't understand until I'm standing
in the dark, neck craned back,
finding Cygnus stretched across the evening sky—
that cross of light,
those wings spread wide,
still hovering over the waters,
still hovering over me.
The stars remember what my body knew:
calm has been breathing over chaos
since before there were words for either,
and love—
love just leans in close
and hovers.
