Our love is like threads of songket and sari—
woven slowly, without haste,
brightly colored though from different hands.

You come from a land
where language and movement are like dance,
coloring days with spices and golden light.
I grew up on a land
quiet and simple,
where the wind knows the scent of warm rice and the first rain.

Our cultures are not patterns easily woven,
sometimes your threads don’t match my weave,
and the colors of my customs feel strange to your eyes.
Yet we choose to keep weaving—
not because it’s easy,
but because we know—
beauty can be born from knots of difference.

Though we have never met,
your words reach my evening window,
and my steps toward your land are carried not by promises,
but by hopes I plant
in the woven gaps of maps,
while you too nurture courage each night,
when screens become the only bridge between us.

Sometimes we quarrel,
like two folk songs crossing rhythms.
But love isn’t about being the same,
it’s about understanding
without changing each other’s base note.

You never ask me to be different,
and I never wish to erase what you bring.
We only embrace each other,
two souls from two lands,
who believe—
even threads of songket and sari that differ
can weave beautifully—
if embroidered into a heart that welcomes them.