The Language of Love

The Language of Love - a poem

---

Love is not just a fleeting phrase,

Nor just the warmth of longing gaze.

It’s more than whispers in the night,

Or stolen moments bathed in light.

It speaks in ways both bold and small,

A hand to lift you when you fall.

A steady voice when storms arise,

The quiet strength behind your eyes.

It’s in the laughter, rich and bright,

That fills the air with golden light.

It’s in the silence, deep and true,

Where hearts converse without a clue.

Love lingers in the morning’s hush,

In hands that meet with gentle brush.

In tangled sheets and coffee warm,

A shelter safe, a home, a storm.

It’s not just perfect, polished lines,

Or grand displays of love divine.

It’s patient, soft, and often grows,

Like petals waking from repose.

It is a light in darkest space,

A touch that time cannot erase.

It does not bow to loss or fear,

But whispers, I am always here.

Love does not weaken, bend, or break,

Nor tally what it gives or takes.

It walks beside, it knows no end,

It lives in lovers, family, friends.

So if you seek to know love’s face,

Look not in words, but in embrace.

For love’s not something stars above—

It’s here, it’s now, it’s us, my love.