The words live inside me,
soft but burning,
like a candle kept hidden
in a shuttered room.

How do I tell her I love her
when even her shadow
feels too sacred to touch?

Each time she speaks,
my heart leans forward,
aching to pour itself out,
yet I answer with silence,
afraid the truth
would break the spell
of her nearness.

So I carry it quietly—
this love that glows in my chest,
spilling into the way
I watch her,
into the stillness
that trembles when she smiles.

Perhaps she feels it—
a warmth that passes between us,
a tenderness unsaid
but alive in the air.

And if I never dare speak,
let my silence be a hymn,
a devotion she may never name—
but always somehow know.

The room hums with quiet industry,
spools of thread rolling like tiny jewels across the tables.
Fabric lies folded in neat piles,
some bright with floral prints,
others soft and plain, waiting to be transformed.

The tutor speaks gently,
guiding hands to cut, pin, and stitch with growing confidence.
Each class is a little world of creativity,
where patience meets imagination
and a simple piece of cloth is coaxed into something beautiful.

My sweetheart goes to the classes,
her eyes shining with quiet pride
as she learns each new skill,
and I think to myself that she isn’t just sewing fabric—
she is sewing her own joy into every seam.

The chatter softens,
machines grow quiet,
scissors lie resting where they were placed.
Fabrics are folded, ribbons gathered,
threads wound carefully back onto their spools.
One by one the lights dim,
and the evening drifts gently closed,
like a curtain drawn at the end of a play.

I long to walk with you by the sea,
where the waves hush the world
and the horizon opens wide.

We would sit upon a weathered rock,
shoulder to shoulder,
watching the stars gather like lanterns
in the dark velvet sky.

In that stillness,
I would turn to you,
not with urgency,
but with the gentleness of the tide,
and place upon your lips
a kiss—
tender, unhurried,
a promise carried
on the breath of the night.