There is a pull with no hand in it,
soft as the way that planets fit.
I lean, you lean, the distance ends —
two quiet orbits becoming friends.

No storm required, no fever, no fall,
just the low sure physics of it all.
The room tilts kindly toward your voice,
and gravity feels a lot like choice.

They say the heavy things bend the light around them.
So it is with you —
without effort, without insistence,
the whole of my direction has curved toward yours.

Closer now, the axis turns,
the steady way a candle burns.

There is a pull with no hand in it,
soft as the way that planets fit.
Let the long arc gently close —
into the orbit the heart chose.

No push, no pull we had to earn —
just two slow moons who chose to turn.