I trace the letters glowing on the screen,
A ghost of touch across the miles of wire.
Though leagues of silent earth may lie between,
Your whispered words can set the air on fire.
We navigate a world of glass and light,
Where pulses carry all we dare not say,
To bridge the heavy hollow of the night
Until the sun brings back a clearer day.
No iron rail or road of paving stone
Could bind my spirit closer to your side;
In every signal sent, I’m less alone,
With every spark, the distance starts to hide.
Though we are parted by the map’s design,
Your beating heart is tethered fast to mine.
The Weaver’s Hand
It is not found in grand or gilded things,
Nor in the vows that thunder through the hall;
But in the quiet grace that kindness brings,
The hand that catches me before I fall.
Our love is woven from a thousand threads:
The morning tea, the shared and tired smile,
The way you know the thoughts inside my head,
And walk with me through every weary mile.
The tapestry is worn in certain parts,
With knots of grief and colors faded thin,
Yet these are but the markings of our hearts,
Where all our truest stories first begin.
Let others seek a love of flawless gold;
I’ll take this warmth against the winter cold.
The Unwritten Verse
I searched for poems in the ancient books,
To find a phrase that fits the way you move,
In mountain streams and quiet, hidden nooks,
Seeking the perfect syntax of our love.
But ink is cold and paper often dry,
It cannot catch the light within your gaze,
Or mimic how the stars across the sky
Seem brighter now than in my lonely days.
So let the poets keep their measured rhyme,
And let the scholars parse the heavy line;
I’ll write our sonnet in the breath of time,
With every day I claim your hand in mine.
For though my words may falter or depart,
The perfect verse is written on my heart.
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