witnessing love from the margins
longing as its own devotional act
i watched them
as the sun touched their hair
and their joy spilled like warm tea
onto the afternoon.
i did not speak.
i did not reach.
i did not ask to be seen.
but i stayed.
out of reverence
as if their laughter
were a hymn
i didn’t want to disturb.
i think this is a kind of love, too.
to sit beside beauty
and let it belong to someone else,
without shrinking,
without fleeing,
without pretending
it doesn’t move you.
i stayed.
even as the ache opened in my chest
like a slow, silent bloom.
because sometimes,
presence is enough.
not touching,
not claiming
just letting the moment
leave its warmth on your skin
without needing to hold
what isn’t yours.
this is how i worship now
not by asking,
but by witnessing.
some days,
that is the bravest
thing i know how to do.