Not just someone to hold my hand,
but to walk with me through marbled halls—
past paintings that whisper centuries,
beneath chandeliers humming old opera songs.
To sit beside me in velvet-red seats,
when the curtains rise on tragedy and jazz.
Who claps when the classical music swells to its peak
even if he doesn’t understand the raga,
just because I’m moved.
To take Polaroids of me mid-laugh,
to frame the soft, un-posed pieces
I often forget I have.
To bring me lilies and baby’s breath,
not because it’s Valentine’s,
but because he listened when I said,
“These are my favourites.”
To come to church,
not for the sermon,
but for me.
To sit in the quiet stained-glass stillness,
not believing the same things,
but believing in us.
To be patient when I unspool,
when my feelings tangle like old film reels.
To hike with me, sleep under stars,
smell like firewood and freedom.
To cook, even messily—
pasta overdone, toast a little burnt,
but with a smile made of effort.
To plant something and keep it alive.
To find joy in roots and green things.
To let vinyls fill our evenings,
crackling jazz and soft acoustics,
swaying barefoot in the kitchen.
To read my poems—really read them—
not just skim the metaphors,
but feel the ache beneath each line.
To hum the songs I play on my guitar,
even off-key,
just to harmonise with my heart.
To let me talk about emperors and wars,
ancient cities and revolutions,
and not just nod—
but ask,
“But why did that matter?”
So I can light up with the answer.
This is the kind of love I want.
Not flashy, not loud.
But curious.
Present.
Rooted like a garden,
melodic like jazz,
and sacred like Sunday.