the softest shade of yellow

There’s something about him that feels like poetry left on a windowsill.

Soft-spoken. Sun-warmed. Untouched by all the noise.

He is the gentlest hue I’ve ever seen —

a muted yellow, like pressed wildflowers or parchment kissed by candlelight.

And I’ve noticed him for longer than I’d ever admit.

In glances. In fleeting, ordinary moments that somehow lingered —

like the sea’s hush long after the tide has gone.

And because of that, I am careful.

Not with myself, no — I’ve weathered storms with bare skin and hopeful eyes.

But with him, I whisper.

I hold my wonder like stardust cupped in trembling hands, afraid to spill even a grain.

Because he seems so kind. So intact.

Like something rare the world hasn’t ruined yet.

I don’t want to be the gale that startles him.

I just want to sit beside him in the breeze,

where nothing has to be said, and yet something sacred lingers in the quiet —

the feeling of being seen, softly.

Not all at once.

But enough.