I fear leaning too close to the rose
its velvet smile hides secret thorns;
what if it drains the ink from my fingertips,
maps of red where I once held light?

I fear standing under fireworks:
brief suns that bloom and fall,
stitching bright holes in the night
scars that glow long after the sky forgets.

And you if I drift too near,
will you be an avalanche or a soft tide?
I am ready to be hurt, but only
by the ache inside your sad story.
I will take your sorrow like rain on my palms,
listen until your silence loosens,
cry with you, then mend the loose edges
a harbor when the sea is cruel,
a lantern when your night needs a face,
a shelter for you through rain and sun.

Some dreams don’t fade when you wake, they bloom quietly in your heart, turning blush into happiness every time the universe reminds you of them.

She was the dusk sky
bruised with shadows, yet carrying the promise of stars.
The world called it nightfall,
but I knew it was her way of hiding the sun she once was.

She was a river split by stones,
yet she kept flowing,
carving her own map through walls that tried to hold her still.

She wasn’t walking
she was drifting,
like a secret written in the wind.
Her laughter was moonlight spilling into a quiet room,
her eyes, two galaxies I could never stop falling into.
She didn’t belong to earth,
she was the pause between dreams and waking.

Our eyes were constellations,
scattering questions
that language could never catch,
until laughter arrived
an ancient river
finding its long-forgotten sky.

Your presence was rainfall
after centuries of thirst,
a melody wandering home
to an instrument
that had dreamed of sound
in silence.

Absence was not a thief,
but a sculptor
its chisel filled the fractures
with molten gold,
kintsugi of the soul,
where brokenness bloomed into light.

Three years were not lost,
but spun into threads of becoming;
so when we met again,
it was not a return,
but a rebirth
a dawn that had been waiting
behind the horizon.

And in that eternal heartbeat,
I understood
time is powerless
against roots that grow
in the hidden gardens of love.

The morning hums a gentle tune,
dew still clings where night was strewn.
A sparrow writes across the air,
its wings a brush, its song a prayer.

The sun climbs slow, with golden hands,
unfolding light across the lands.
Shadows shrink, yet softly stay,
teaching night must give to day.

We rise, we fall, like tides at sea,
yet every dawn rewrites the key
a chance to sing, to dream, to try,
beneath this vast forgiving sky.

She moves, and the air bends toward her
a secret gravity, invisible yet undeniable.
Her hum drifts like a hymn carved into the sky,
each note a cathedral where my heart kneels.

She is a hummingbird in human form,
small, radiant, fleeting
yet every beat of her wings
creates a storm inside me.

She is my North Star, constant and burning,
guiding me through the wilderness of myself.
She is a droplet of water touched by sunlight,
splintering into rainbows too pure to hold.

I see her as heaven draped in mortal skin,
and every glance is a pilgrimage,
every second a surrender.

When she weeps,
the world inside my chest collapses heavier
than the ruin of my own sorrows.
When she is silent,
I sit with her in the hush,
where quiet itself becomes a healer.

Yes
I fear losing her as fiercely
as a mother clings to her child.
And I love her with a devotion
that rivals that same holy bond.
It may not be motherly love,
but its weight, its eternity
is just the same.