It was a breath I almost missed,
a hush against my skin,
the kind of touch that drifts to you
before the words begin.

It was a feeling without sound,
yet every beat replied,
the way a violet lifts its face
toward spring it can’t deny.

It was a hand I could not see
but felt within my own,
a warmth that eased the frozen parts
I thought were carved in stone.

Real love does not announce itself
nor rush for all to see;
it grows the way a hillside keeps
the snow in memory.

Slow as an early morning star,
faithful as falling dew,
it threads the heart with gentleness
and makes it brave and new.

:: 11.19.2025 ::