Love is not the thunderclap that breaks the quiet sky,
But the steady rain that nourishes roots buried deep and shy.
It’s the cup of tea poured before dawn’s first light,
The hand held not in passion’s fire, but in the calm of night.
It speaks in gestures, soft and slow –
A jacket shared against the wind’s cold blow,
The knowing glance when words run dry,
The grace that lets the other fly.
It is the courage to be seen,
Behind the walls, where fears convene.
To stand unarmored, true, and bare,
And trust your soul to another’s care.
It does not shout with grand displays,
But kneels beside you through hard days.
It stitches wounds with patient thread,
And whispers hope when doubt is fed.
Love is the soil where forgiveness grows,
Where trust, once shattered, slowly mends and glows.
It does not tally wrongs or keep the score,
But opens wide a stronger, kinder door.
It is the quiet hum beneath life’s frantic sound,
A sanctuary where true peace is found.
Not just the blaze that lights the way,
But the warm ember that will not stray.
So let us love not just in sparks that brightly gleam,
But in the steadfast, patient, daily stream.
For love’s true strength is proven when it stays –
An oak that shelters through the stormy days.
It is not chains that hold you near,
But wings that lift away all fear.
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