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“It doesn’t knock. Doesn’t bloom like it used to. Just shows up in the way someone remembers how you take your tea. In a song that doesn’t ache anymore. It slips between the cracks of the day in the quiet of forgotten habits, in hands that don’t flinch when reaching for yours. Love returns slowly. In mismatched mugs, and the softness of being asked if you’ve slept. In laughter that feels like rinsed linen clean, familiar, light. It’s a slow thing, like the light that finds its way through closed blinds.” — Maimoona Abidi
It doesn’t knock.
Doesn’t bloom like it used to.
Just shows up
in the way someone remembers how you take your tea.
In a song that doesn’t ache anymore.
It slips between the cracks of the day
in the quiet of forgotten habits,
in hands that don’t flinch when reaching for yours.
Love returns slowly.
In mismatched mugs,
and the softness of being asked if you’ve slept.
In laughter that feels like rinsed linen
clean, familiar, light.
It’s a slow thing,
like the light that finds its way through closed blinds.