We gather in crowds and whisper of silence,
yearning for touch, yet wincing at hands.
The streets are swollen with voices we summon,
and still, we retreat to the rooms of our minds.

Oh, the terrible weight of desire and distance!
To love so fiercely, yet long to be free,
to build up our houses, then dream of the desert,
to drown in a sea of all we let be.

I have walked between wanting and not,
two corridors lit with a flickering doubt,
one draped in the velvet of intimate longing,
the other a door I am always without.

What a riddle it is, to be so divided,
to hold out a hand and wish it unseen,
to ache for the warmth of an offered embrace,
and shrink from the shadow it leaves in between.

Perhaps we are all just echoes of echoes,
laughing in rooms where no one can hear,
writing our names on the walls of each other,
then leaving, before they can ever appear.

Life is beauty, and life is pain,
a dance of loss, a song of gain.
It shimmers gold, then fades to gray,
a fleeting dawn, a waning day.

It lifts us high with whispered bliss,
soft lips that touch, a lover's kiss.
Yet breaks us, bends us, tests our will,
a mountain steep, a climb uphill.

It thrills, it aches, it sparks, it wanes,
it hums in blood, it roars in veins.
It is laughter, it is weeping,
a waking dream, a midnight creeping.

It is the light that warms the skin,
the fear of losing all within.
It is the hand that pulls you near,
the shadowed doubts, the strangling fear.

It is the mundane, the slow, the still,
the silent hours, the quiet will.
It is the rush, the reckless run,
the roaring fire, the setting sun.

Yet if we never knew the fall,
would heights be precious things at all?
If never lost in tempest deep,
would peace be something worth to keep?

The jagged path, the winding lane,
the burning loss, the hard-won gain,
they carve the heart, they shape the soul,
they make the fractured spirit whole.

So let us rise, though winds may chide,
embrace the waves, the turning tide.
For life's not meant to be a line,
its peaks and valleys make it shine.

In shadowed streets where silence weeps,
And echoes chase the feet of time,
A whisper hums where sorrow sleeps,
“Stay soft,” it sings, “though life may climb
Its thorn-wrought walls and break your skin,
Do not let hardness settle in.”

For pain may press with quiet might,
May twist the dawn into the night,
But you, dear soul, are not your ache,
Not every bruise, not every break.
You are the hush between the rain,
The breath that rises after pain.

So let it hurt. Let teardrops fall
Like silver bells down sorrow’s wall.
Let it swell and let it sting,
Grief is a wild, untamed thing.
But let it heal. The heart, it knows
How even shattered gardens grow.

And when the ache begins to fade,
Like fog dissolved by morning’s blade,
Let it go—release its hold,
The stories pain has tried to mold.
You are more than what you bear,
A flame still dancing through despair.

So rise, as mist that greets the sun,
As rivers do when thaw has come.
Rise soft, rise fierce, rise with your grace,
The world may harden—but not your face.
Smile with the soul that’s weathered through,
There’s still a bloom inside of you.

In the hush between the ticking hours,
Where shadows curl beneath the tea-stained light,
I see you - yes, even now,
Even when you think the world has looked away.

You move through mornings like whispered prayers,
Gathering crumbs of courage from yesterday’s dreams,
Shouldering kindness like a well-worn coat,
Soft at the seams, but still stitched strong.

I see your effort,
Not the loud, banner-waving kind,
But the quiet heroism of simply rising,
Of showing up,
Of washing one more dish,
Smiling once more for someone else.

There is a grace in your weariness,
A dignity in your doubt.
You matter more than the world dares to tell you,
More than the mirror reveals
Or the silence admits.

Be gentle, dear traveller of tangled days.
You are not meant to outrun the dark
But to carry a candle within it.
And I,
With all the stars I can summon,
See you.

In a room where shadows stretched like sighs,
Where time wore slippers and whispered lies,
There stood a soul, not born, but built,
Threaded not from ease, but quilted guilt,
Not soft by chance, but choice refined,
By all the jagged things behind.

She walked where tempests cracked the sky,
Where childhood dreams went soft and dry,
Where harsh words bruised like winter sleet,
Yet still she offered something sweet.
Not sugar spun from naivety,
But honey from a wisdom tree.

For kindness, see, is not a gift
Wrapped neat in bows and morning lift,
It’s forged in fire, steeped in rain,
Tempered in sorrow, kissed by pain.
It’s choosing light with eyes gone dim,
And humming hope when edges grim.

She smiles not out of ignorance,
But as rebellion. As a dance.
As a thumb pressed gently in the eye
Of every grief that whispered: Why?

She learned to bloom where nothing grew,
To soften sharpness, split in two,
And still she laughed. And still she gave.
And still she found more hearts to save.

The kindest souls are not naive,
They know how often people leave,
How promises can turn to smoke,
Yet still, they mend the ones who broke.

So if you meet one - bless the thread
That stitched their wounds and raised their head.
They are the lanterns, fierce and bright,
Born not in ease, but in the night.

In the hush before the kettle sings,
Where morning drips from silver strings,
And sunbeams crawl on the windowsill,
Time pauses… just long enough to fill.

Do not - dear dreamer - slip back to grey,
Where thought loops tight in tangled fray.
Wake up! The world is softly grand,
A teacup trembling in your hand.

Gratitude tiptoes in bare, sweet feet,
Through toast crumbs, yawns, and tangled sheets.
She wears no crown, she needs no fame,
Yet all she touches finds its name.

Be kind - yes, even to the bee
That circles twice, then lets you be.
Be kind to traffic, to aching knees,
To grumpy clouds and stubborn trees.

The cosmos spins, a silent tune,
One minute sun, the next a moon.
Life changes coats - velvet, then threadbare,
It dances swift through shifting air.

So don’t get caught in grumble’s snare,
Or overthink the crooked stair.
The rose is best just smelled, not solved,
And mysteries are best evolved.

Bless the moment - the spoon, the sigh,
The way your laughter splits the sky.
A whisper floats: Be still. Be here.
The sacred hides in the simple, so near.

In the quiet between heartbeats, I found you there,
Not in grand gestures, but in a most gentle care.
In every moment your eyes softly see,
The deepest, truest parts of me.

You understand when words fall short,
When silence speaks more than love ever thought.
With devotion, you stand by my side,
A lighthouse constant through the tide.

You offer respect like a sacred prayer,
In every look, in how you’re always there.
You validate the dreams I dare to voice,
And reassure me, love is not a choice.
It’s how you show up, again and again,
In sunlight and sorrow, through joy and pain.

And I, in turn, trust your soul’s design,
Accepting your shadows as wholly divine.
I see your strength, and I admire,
The way you rise from every fire.

Your worth, your heart, I deeply approve,
With every breath, I show my love.
And when your courage starts to fade,
I’ll be your echo - unafraid.

Appreciation fills my every vow,
To cherish the person standing here now.
Encouragement will be my gift,
A steady wind, a soul’s uplift.

So let this be the promise I keep,
To love you wide, to love you deep.
Where caring meets trust, and devotion meets grace,
That’s where our love has found its place.