I grew up getting excited every time I wrote poetry,
poems made my nights complete.
I just loved literature and poetry;
I would memorize Sonnet 116,
believing that love was real and easy when I was young.

A sudden escape from the chaotic world—
a peace, a moment of silence
beneath the vast stars at night.

I wouldn’t say I’m an artist or a poet;
I just loved how words rhymed,
how they made me feel loved, cherished and pursued.
But growing up made me turn away from poetry;
it seemed unreal, untrue—false hopes and make-believe.

I want to love poetry again.
I want to write poems once more.

Perhaps it will take time.
Perhaps it will happen when someone sits beside me,
before the coffee gets cold.

Perhaps, I’m ready now—
to love and be loved,
to put down the hard walls I’ve built,
and to embrace the ripened fruit of what’s been waiting all along.

To stop waiting for perfect moments or perfect people,
but instead, to wait for the right one—
someone who feels like home again.
A soul that’s a haven, steadfast in every ebb and flow,
a soul that keeps no record of wrongs,
patient enough to wait and to forgive,
kindhearted, warm, and unwavering.
A soul that believes all things, hopes all things,
endures all things.
That proves, at last, that love never ends.

And finally, all the ifs and whys have been answered—
why it took longer,
why the waiting felt like a journey through the unknown.
It was because love, real love, takes time to grow,
time to heal, and time to believe again.