I wrote “Evidence of Love” in the aftermath of a season where assurances fell flat but my body kept telling on me. This poem follows that inward tilt—the way love proves itself not in declarations, but in the quiet, seismic drift of who you are becoming when no one is watching.
I have mined myself through the capture of my own feet,
watching my careful steps toward something I deeply care for.
Evidence of Love
If the world says there is nothing,
let Yah proclaim the storm.
Yet still, I guard my mouth and remain silent.
For I have nothing to prove.
Still, love finds its way into my heart,
and then—something shifts.
A movement within.
A breaking open.
Evidence not seen,
but felt.
I wrote this in the quiet after realizing how love can upend you without ever announcing itself. These lines are my way of tracing that private tremor—the kind of devotion that stays hidden, but will not stop reshaping the room inside my chest.
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
Love does not always arrive with spectacle; sometimes it is a quiet rearranging of the furniture inside you. This piece traces that almost-invisible turn, when what you cannot name begins to live in the space between each breath.
— Author’s Note: Sometimes love asks you to believe in what you can only feel moving under the surface, a quiet fault line no one else can see. This poem lives in that tremor, trusting the tilt in the body, the breath that catches, more than any evidence the world would accept. In the hush after the last line, I am still learning to trust that what stirs inside me is reason enough to stay.
