What is love,
if not the silence you hold
when your own name is on fire—
but you still speak theirs
with softness?

Is it not
a thousand quiet offerings
stacked in ordinary hours?
The choosing, again
and again
and again—
someone else’s peace
over your pride.

Love.

It doesn’t always wear white.
It doesn’t come
with violins,
vows,
or roses.

Sometimes,
it hides in the quietest corners of the day—
in the unspoken apology,
in the coffee made before sunrise,
in the way you fold their laundry
without expecting thanks.

It is the staying,
when leaving
would be easier.

It is not the grand gestures,
not the screaming from mountaintops—
it is the whisper
in a quiet room:
I’ll stay.

What is love,
if not the willingness
to become smaller
so someone else
can stand taller?

So tell me—
what is love,
if not
sacrifice?