It’s not just fire, bright and wild,
Nor fleeting thrill, nor dream beguiled.
It’s in the quiet, steady glow,
The gentle ways two spirits grow.
A hand to hold when nights feel cold,
A story shared, both young and old.
A look that says, without a sound,
“I see you here, I’ve always found.”
It bends, it breaks, yet mends again,
A woven thread through loss and gain.
No greater gift the heart can give—
To love, to lose, and still to live.