Lover Poem by Za7ra Sulaiman

We might leave the lights strung past the season,
a small rebellion in the quiet of January.
This space is ours—
no clocks, no rules, just the way your presence
settles the air with something
half haze, half gravity.

I don't know if I've known you a moment
or all my lives.
But still—
Can I follow the path you take,
lie close in the hush that lingers after laughter?
Can I call this—
whatever this is—ours?

The couch is theirs if they need it.
We'll let the world in on our terms.
And yes, I notice the way they look at you—
as if you were made of something rare,
as if they, too, want
what I've known through three long summers
and still, still want for every season to come.

Can I be near you like this
always,
where the hours collapse and the years don't frighten?

I'll say it plain:
You're mine.

And if they ask us to rise, I'll show them
the worn callouses of devotion,
the strange pull of something magnetic
that has always led me back to you.

My heart—borrowed and bruised—
met yours, still carrying
the soft blue of distance.
But this is the ending we earned.
We made it here.

I'll be theatrical if I must.
I'll be honest.

Keep your secrets sharp and sweet—just for me.
And wherever they gather,
I'll be there early,
saving you a seat.

Always.