The Thing About Lightning

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Love, you say? Ah,
I have seen it, lived it,
watched it take shape
like a storm over water,
slow at first, a darkening sky,
a shiver in the air—
then a strike, sudden, blinding,
a heat that leaves you trembling
before you’ve even had the chance
to understand what has happened.

That’s how it was for me.
Love did not knock,
did not ask permission—
it arrived, fully formed,
disguised as an ordinary moment.
The way he stood in a doorway,
the way his laughter moved
through a room,
the way his eyes, so sharp,
so knowing,
locked onto mine
like he had been searching
for something
and had just now found it.

It was not the kind of love
they spoke of in my youth,
not the love passed down
in whispers or written in poems,
not the love my father taught me
to recognize,
to want,
to wait for.

But it was love,
all the same.

And yet—
let me tell you this,
those of you who are just beginning,
those of you who do not believe—
lightning is not love.

That is the first mistake
the young make.
They think love is only the strike,
the rush of fire through the bones,
the breathlessness of discovery.

But love is what comes after.

Love is the quiet work
of keeping what the lightning left behind.
It is the careful tending of ruins,
the rebuilding after the storm.
Love is not the first time
your heart stammers in your chest—
love is every time after.
Love is choosing him
when the world tells you not to.
Love is waking up
to the same face,
the same hands,
the same quiet promise,
again and again and again.

We built a life
from the aftershock.
Not in grand gestures,
not in declarations,
but in the slow, steady rhythm
of being seen.

Love became the sound of his voice
when he spoke my name.
Love became the way he touched
the small of my back
as we walked through a crowd.
Love became the spaces
where words were no longer needed.

And now—
even after all these years,
love is still here.

Not as a bright and blinding thing,
but as something quieter,
more persistent,
woven into the very air I breathe.

It is the way I still wake
and reach for him.
The way he still knows
how to quiet me
with a single look.
The way he remains,
when the world once told us
we could not.

So you,
who are just beginning—
do not fear the lightning.
Let it strike,
let it undo you.

And you,
who do not believe—
perhaps you have never seen
what comes after.

Because love,
real love,
does not fade.

It deepens.
It thickens.
It gathers into memory,
into time,
into the quiet defiance
of two men
who refused to let go.

And if you are lucky,
if you are willing,
it will take you farther
than you ever thought
you could go.