love was hushed.
a flicker at the wick,
wax weeping slow at the rim.
not patient, but still.
a shadow in the next room,
a breath held between pages.
love watched,
barefoot and breaking.
it paced the hallways
like a memory retracing its steps.
it curled up in corners
where light couldn’t reach,
and waited for no one.
love will stammer,
love will swell.
a tremor, a lull.
it will be stormy,
lightning in the belly,
the echo after.
love will not ask permission.
it will arrive half-formed,
mud on its boots,
a laugh caught mid-sentence.
it will make a mess.
it will stay for tea.

love is a letter, finally released,
creased and smudged at the edges.
knowing without asking.
it is the silence after music,
when you realize you were listening all along.

love is the lilies on the bedside table,
opening slow in their own soft rebellion.
it is the smell of skin on cotton,
the ache of being seen.
love is worth the bloom,
and worth the quiet after.