We learned our love at candlelit tables,
where forks slowed down and voices too,
where time arrived in courses measured
and left us space to see it through.
No neon signs, no need for showing,
just linen, glass, a careful room,
a waiter who knew when to vanish,
a window holding back the gloom.
In western towns where evenings linger,
we practiced how to listen well,
how silence could become a sentence
no menu ever learned to sell.
Between the bread and final sweetness
the future leaned across the plate,
not bold or loud or asking favors,
just patient, knowing how to wait.
These places taught us what love isn't,
not spectacle, not borrowed shine,
but something built in lowered voices
and refilled glasses taking time.
In every song I wrote for living,
in every story told since then,
there's always one more table waiting
to teach us who we were back when.
So let the lists and roses wander,
let February make its case,
we know the truth of love by heart now,
it rhymes with staying, not with haste.