There is a quiet tension in holding a seedling that hasn't yet met the sun. We keep it hidden in the dark, afraid that the open air might be too harsh, or that the ground we’ve chosen isn't ready to hold its roots. To speak of love is to plant that seed in the open; it is an act of total exposure, where we risk the frost of a silent response for the hope of a summer we haven't yet earned.

The Gravity of the Unseen Tide

I am a shore that waits for a moon,

Humming a low and ancient tune.

I feel the pull of a hidden tide,

With nowhere left for the waves to hide.

I am a book with a silver seal,

Hiding the truths that I’ve come to feel.

Afraid if I open the spine to the light,

The ink will dissolve and vanish from sight.

You are the sky, vast and unknown,

While I am a bird who has never quite flown.

I want to trust the wind of your breath,

But I fear the silence—the gravity’s death.

If I offer the bloom, will you catch the scent?

Or will it be crushed, its beauty all spent?

I’d rather be winter, frozen and deep,

Than wake a forest I’m not allowed to keep.

So I keep the fire in a lantern of glass,

And watch the ghosts of the "maybe" pass.

A storm in a bottle, a star in a cage,

Afraid to turn to the final page.

In the end, I find a strange peace in the shadows. I would rather my words remain unwritten than risk upsetting the rhythm of your world. Watching you smile, seeing the light dance in your eyes—that is enough to keep me warm. I have learned to love the sun without needing to touch it, finding my own joy simply by standing in the glow of your happiness, even if I am the only one who knows why I am smiling back.