I met them wrapped in color, hair like dusk split by a prism’s glow,
their voice a quiet gravity that pulled me where I didn’t know.
They smiled with eyes that whispered things too soft for sound to keep,
and suddenly the noise inside me stilled, like water falling asleep.

One night beneath the hush of hopes I barely dared to name,
I said, “I wish I had more to give,” but they just smiled all the same.
With laughter laced in meaning, they looked at me and said with ease,
“I want us more than comfort, more than coins, more than peonies.”

Now when they say 'darling', the sky itself feels lighter in my chest,
like every ache I carried learned how to be held and rest.
If love is made of moments strung like stars that gently see,
then every step I drift toward them becomes a quiet destiny.

Laugh in the dark at your own clever spin,
turning meaning to mischief with a smirk and a grin?
Are your nights stitched in velvet, your mind wide-awake,
with your dog at your feet and the silence you make?

Veil your affection in jest and disguise,
saying darling or love just to watch my reply?
Ever wonder, like me, if your teasing might stay
longer than you meant it to linger that way?

Lace on your wrist smells like citrus and rain,
is your scent a soft story you haven't explained?
Are your plushies arranged like an audience unseen,
watching matcha-steeped mornings unfold like a scene?

Vanish mid-text to float in your head,
do your thoughts wander far before coming to bed?
Even now, I don't ask for more than you give,
just to wonder like this is a sweet way to live.

In an orchard where sunbeams weave through leaves like golden threads,
I glimpsed her, a cherry blossom in white, where beauty gently spreads,
Her presence, a delicate fragrance of vanilla, soft and true,
With cheeks aglow like dawn’s first light, and ribbons kissed by dew.

Her hands, with tender touch, reached for the fruit within her grasp,
A dance of fingertips on ripened skins, a symphony of sweet and rasp,
Each bite a quiet celebration, a whisper of nectar on her lips,
While I, a distant fruit in another grove, felt my heart’s soft, aching rips.

How I long for the cherry blossom, my heart entwined with distant dreams,
To be a fruit she might someday yearn for, beneath the moon’s gentle beams,
Yet, here I linger in the shadows, content to watch her close embrace,
Hoping one day she might desire me, though I remain in a far-off place.

How I long for a slow life, where moments drift like dandelion seeds,
Each whisper of time a soft sigh in the stillness of quiet meads.
No hurried footsteps disturb the hush, no frantic rush nor urgent needs,
Just the gentle cadence of twilight's breeze, where soul and silence intercede.

In the attic of my thoughts, where shadows dance and secrets dwell,
I weave dreams with threads of moonlight, in a solitary, enchanted spell.
Away from the clamor of worldly strife, where tolling bells no longer compel,
Here, solitude sings its sweet refrain, in echoes only the heart can tell.

Oh, to linger in the hush of dusk, where the day's harsh edges soften,
To dwell in the embrace of words unsaid, where dreams and whispers often
Conspire to paint the canvas of time, in hues of amber and saffron,
In this quiet sanctuary of the soul, where peace reigns sovereign.