Love is the quiet certainty of morning,
the warmth of sunlight slipping through the blinds,
touching my skin like a whispered promise:
I am here, and I will always return.

It is the steady rhythm of a heart not my own,
the echo of laughter I can still hear in the silence,
the way your voice turns my name
into something softer, something sacred.

Love is not just the grand confessions,
not just the roses and candlelit nights—
it is the hand that reaches for mine
without thinking, without hesitation,
as if our fingers were always meant to intertwine.

It is the way you tilt your head when you’re listening,
the way you tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear,
the way you turn ordinary moments into poetry
without ever writing a single word.

Love is the gravity that keeps me steady,
the pull of the moon on restless tides,
the way your presence feels like home
even when I am far from everything familiar.

It is the space between heartbeats,
the hush before a kiss,
the silence that somehow speaks louder than words—
a promise that does not need to be spoken:
I am yours, and I always will be.