Happy Valentine's
Day, Afi

You touch piano keys the way you touch people — listening first, feeling for the resonance underneath. Your fingers hover, reading something beneath the surface, some frequency from Caucasus peaks that never left your blood.

You play Prokofiev like you read a room: knowing when the minor chord will drop, when someone's about to break, when justice needs a fist wrapped in silk.

Something in your bones from those mountains, Avar pride that doesn't bend, only sharpens. Delicate lines everywhere— your collarbone, your arguments, the way you write injustice down with perfect penmanship before you burn it all.

I watch you read the room like sheet music, seeing patterns in the chaos, pulling threads of light I can't perceive.

Books stacked like ammunition, passport worn at the edges, but now you're pouring concrete, building something solid enough to launch from.

You say: "The field is shifting," and I believe you because I feel it too— that electricity when you decide to fight.

You read me before I know myself, your hands on piano keys, your hands on my chest, pulling frequencies I didn't know I had—

And when you settle, when you finally plant your feet, it's not surrender— it's a warrior choosing your ground.