Luis leans into a feeling he barely understands and lets it speak—
I don’t know the shape of your laughter,
or the quiet places you go when the music stops,
but your name lingers in me
like a song I almost remember.
We are strangers, passing—
two brief lights brushing in the dark,
yet something pulls, gentle as gravity,
whispering what if into the silence.
Maybe love doesn’t always arrive with history,
maybe sometimes it begins as a question,
a fragile spark daring to exist
before it has reason.
And if I could wish you anything,
it wouldn’t be the stage or the spotlight,
not the roar of a crowd calling you back—
but a street where no one’s watching.
Walk free, like a regular civilian,
through East Van in the evening glow,
no weight, no eyes, no expectations—
just footsteps, breath, and sky.
Somewhere simple,
where everybody knows your name,
not as a headline or a legend,
but as a person passing by—
smiling, unnoticed, whole.
I won’t pretend I know you—
I don’t,
but if hearts can learn in the space between breaths,
then maybe—just maybe—
I could learn to love you there.
Because maybe love begins like this:
not in possession, not in knowing,
but in wanting someone to be free,
even before they’re yours to hold.
