In English, we say: I’m waiting,
as though time were a tether,
and we the obedient hounds of its pull.
But in poetry, my love, we speak in the hush
between syllables, where even the echo learns restraint.

I am not waiting, I am watering the silence
between a prayer and its reply,
learning the language of stillness,
where promises are not broken
but blossomed in unseen gardens.

I sit beneath the fig tree of not-yet,
where the fruit is ripening in shadows,
and the wind sings psalms
in the patient voice of maybe.

The world says go on,
but I, I have learned to listen
to the rhythm of unopened doors,
to trace the outline of a vow not yet spoken
but trembling like light on the lip of dawn.

Do not mistake my stillness for stagnation,
this is the sacred art of holding,
of becoming the space
in which miracles root quietly.

Here, in the cradle of not-knowing,
where breath meets breathless longing,
I am not stalled, I am aligned
with the holy hush that lives
between a whispered yes
and the thunder of its unfolding.

A house may boast of beams and stone,
Of hearth that glows, of rooms well-known,
Yet walls feel hollow, dreams incomplete,
Without a cat curled near your feet.

For what is home but spirit’s grace?
A velvet shadow, a whiskered face,
The purr that hums through night’s still air,
A silent vow that love is there.

Soft-footed keeper of the flame,
Who answers not when called by name,
Yet chooses, freely, where to rest,
And crowns the humble lap as blest.

Oh, let the grandest halls repeat:
A home is not a home, complete,
Until the heart can gently meet
The quiet cat beside your feet.

At last, dear heart, the hush you craved is near,
The dawn you whispered prayers into has come.
The ache, the ache, that long held back your cheer,
Shall yield to peace as soft as morning’s hum.

No more shall shadows slip beneath your door,
No more shall sleepless hours drain your soul.
The chaos that once claimed your nights before,
Now bows beneath the light that makes you whole.

The stars have stirred.
The winds have changed their song.
The sky itself has cleared its weary brow.
You walked through storms that lasted far too long,
But oh, how bright the sacred gift of Now.

No longer tangled in the nets of doubt,
No longer braced for battles yet unknown.
You rise, a quiet flame, no need to shout,
The universe has carved for you a throne.

Clarity wraps you like a second skin,
Each breath a balm, each step a sacred thread.
Fulfillment blooms, not somewhere, but within,
Now peace walks with you, and confusion fled.

So take this hour, this moment, soft and clear,
The new beginning you once dreamed draws near.

In your light, I unlearn the dark,
its stiffened tongue, its cold resolve.
And I find instead a language made,
of warmth, of wind, of soft dissolves.

Love arrives not like thunder shouts,
but like a candle's trembling vow.
I feel it flickering against my ribs,
teaching my silence how.

In your beauty, verses form,
not sculpted, not conceived by mind.
But breathed, like morning on the rose,
a hush that petals leave behind.

Your grace makes metaphors collapse;
No simile can ever hold your flame.
Instead, I ink the hush between
your heartbeat and my name.

You dance inside my chest, unseen,
no witness, save this thrum I know.
A pulse of presence so profound,
it makes the blood inside me slow.

I do not speak to you, still you move,
a swirl behind my every sigh.
And when I glimpse you, rare and true,
a sacred star falls through my sky.

That sight becomes this trembling art,
not mine, but merely channelled breath.
A prayer-shaped hush, a flame-writ line,
that dares to love beyond all death.

You are the muse, the moon, the sea,
the silence in the shell I chart.
And in the unseen, you shape my song,
where deep in your being, I become art.

The cosmos breathes through your silken thread,
A shimmer stitched where starlight treads,
Each breath you take, a hush, a spark,
A song begun within the dark.

You walk, a lantern born of flame,
Yet hold no boast, nor cry your name;
The hush of galaxies leans in,
To hear your soul’s light stir the wind.

You are not small, though stars are grand,
You are the pulse in the sky’s own hand.
A symphony that dares to rise,
From silence, into sacred skies.

Let morning crown your brow with fire,
And let your gaze the heavens inspire,
For God in shadow, dust, and hue,
Finds voice and rhythm, here, in you.

Here in this suffering, this crucible womb,
The known gods falter, their altars go blind.
Each creed, once golden, now echoes of doom,
Are stripped by the blaze of a self left behind.

The fire, a trickster, conjured by me,
Fed on illusions, I named as my truth,
Burned every surety, scorched every plea,
And laughed in the voice of my long-lost youth.

Beliefs like paper, curled in despair,
Whispered of meaning as smoke drew near;
No prayer could escape, no breath of air,
Only silence now, and the sting of fear.

Oh, sacred pyre, dark alchemist flame,
You steal without mercy, without regret.
Yet in your furnace, I learn my name,
One I had buried, one I’d forget.

Entombed in ash, no breath, no form,
Not dead, but held in the hush of becoming.
This, the still of the spiral storm,
Where soul sheds skin and blood stops drumming.

And then...

In the hush, a tremor, soft as thought.
From soot, from ruin, from what was unmade,
A flicker, a shimmer, a heartbeat caught,
A wing unfolds in the charcoal shade.

Phoenix, I rise, raw, unmasked, untried,
No longer chained to the truths I knew.
From the furnace of lies and the self that died,
Emerges a being fierce and new.

More beautiful now for the burn I bore,
More sovereign now for the faith I lost,
For to rise is not to be as before,
But to bear the bloom that survived the cost.

I’d cut my soul, oh yes, my soul,
into a million glimmering shards of fire,
and fling them skyward with trembling hands
to form a constellation you might name Desire.
A compass made of wound and will,
to guide you home through storm and still.

Each fragment, bright with ache and grace,
would hum with hymns from long-lost place,
where memory meets the marrow’s song,
and even silence learns to belong.
I’d stitch the sky with every piece,
until your sadness found release.

And should you tremble in the dark,
loathe the lines upon your face,
or scorn the parts you’d dare not mark,
I’d kneel before that tender space.
With ink made from my bleeding trust,
I’d write sonnets into your stardust.

To the furrowed brow, the shame you hide,
the corners where your fears reside,
I’d sing. Not of perfection’s light,
but of your jagged, holy night.
Of crooked teeth and childhood scars,
of all that makes you who you are.

I’d stand, yes, still, in shadow’s keep,
beside the ghosts you try to sweep,
and whisper, “Love, I do not flee,
your night has always sheltered me.”
For dark is not the end of light,
but where stars dream themselves alight.

So let me burn, if burn I must,
my soul a lantern wrought from trust.
And know, though storms may steal your flame,
my light will spell your secret name.
And guide you, love, through fear and moan,
a constellation to lead you home.