Started in the quiet hours,

when the world slept but we didn’t.

Your words, a kind of gravity,

From my orbit, pulling me.

The way you wrote about rainstorms,

like they were alive,

the way I let my guard down,

like it was nothing at all.

Across oceans of static and wires,

we made something that felt inspired.

Philadelphia. We chose it because it was halfway,

because neither of us had been before.

For something so fragile, a neutral place,

a city that didn’t know our names.

You said, "Meet me by the Liberty Bell,"

and I laughed at the irony-

two broken souls,

looking for something whole.

Philadelphia,

Feeling alive,

Philadelphia,

Two hearts collide.

City streets, our world slows down,

Philadelphia, heart unbound.

Philadelphia,

you and me,

Let's just be

Be together here in

Philadelphia.

You were there before me,

hands in your coat pockets,

eyes tracing the cracks in the cobblestones.

I almost turned back,

but then you looked up and smiled—

not the smile I’d imagined,

but something warmer, quieter there,

like a secret you hadn’t meant to share.

The city stretched itself around us,

its streets alive with echoes.

We walked. Our legs ached, as did our hearts,

We shared pretzels on the steps of the museum of art.

You pointed at the skyline and said,

"This is nothing like where I’m from."

I told you about the trees back home,

how they burned gold in the autumn.

We traded pieces, joy and woe,

Cautiously. Slowly.

By the fourth night, it was raining,

and we were lost somewhere near South Street.

You reached for my hand,

not to hold it, but to pull me towards a cheesesteak stand.

Still, I didn’t let go.

We found shelter under an awning,

and the air between us shifted-

heavier, an electric crush.

"Can I kiss you?" you asked,

and my answer was the space that disappeared between us.

Philadelphia,

Feeling alive,

Philadelphia,

Two hearts collide.

City streets, our world slows down,

Philadelphia, heart unbound.

Philadelphia,

you and me,

Let's just be

Be together here in

Philadelphia.

By Sunday, the city felt smaller,

the hotel room cozier.

We sat on the edge of the bed,

watching the sun stain the Schuylkill gold and red.

You said, "I hate goodbyes,"

and I said, "Then don’t say it."

But we both knew how the story would end

trains, planes, lives pulling us back again

to where we started.

Now, Philadelphia lingers like a ghost,

its bridges and alleys stitched to my ribs.

Back on my streets, but I still hear your laugh

echo off red-brick rowhouses.

We return to the glow of screens,

to words that feel too small for what we’ve made.

But some part of in Phillie remains,

in a city that didn’t know our names.