What if I set the pen down
and let the ink dry in its well,
leave verses half-formed,
like abandoned prayers
that no one will answer?

What if I stop trying,
let the weight of silence
settle in my throat,
unspoken words fossilizing
into something brittle,
something useless?

What if I forget how to dream,
let my hands go slack,
my thoughts unspool
into empty corridors
where even echoes
refuse to stay?

What if I stop writing,
stop speaking,
stop being—
until I fade like a name
erased from the margins,
a story untold,
a breath no one remembers?

What if I give up?
And what if no one notices?

Can I have your last name,
The same way I already have your heart?

You're already mine,
So why not make it official?

You’re so handsome,
Maybe you'd like to see a little version of yourself in me?

I am your wife,
But I can be anything you need—
Your partner, your peace, your greatest love.

You have a house,
But maybe you could build a home in me.

I’m not a pillow for you to hold dear,
But I’m warm and soft enough for you to stay close.

Most of all, I am your poetess;
And you, my love, are my greatest masterpiece.

Oh, restless ache that stirs my soul,
a whisper woven in the wind,
you call with voices soft and low,
yet echo deep, yet burn within.

You stretch beyond my mortal hold,
a silver thread, a trembling light,
a distant hand I cannot grasp,
yet reach for still in endless flight.

To yearn is but to walk the edge,
to chase the dawn, to beg the night,
to thirst for what the stars conceal,
to wander lost yet burn so bright.

You shimmer in the lover’s sigh,
in letters sent but left unread,
in lips that part with words unsaid,
in dreams that wake and turn to dust.

To yearn is but to know the ache
of time that bends but does not break,
of shadows cast by what could be,
of steps retraced through memory.

Oh, yearning, cruel and bittersweet,
you press your weight against my chest,
a longing not for what has been,
but for the dream I never met.

I hold you close, though you are pain,
for you are proof that I still live—
a heart unscarred by hollow days,
a soul that dares, that dares to give.

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.