Between us,
love is a garden quietly exploding—
flowers grow in silence,
roots intertwine beneath soil,
drawing secrets from darkness
in rhythms we both hum but never speak.
Yet words fall
like clumsy rain,
muddying petals we crafted from light,
washing colors into gray,
turning whispers into strange echoes
of languages we thought we shared
but never truly knew.
Your voice and mine,
once aligned in silent harmony,
now fumble
as two dancers
suddenly uncertain of the steps
they've practiced
forever in silence.
When we speak,
it's as though we rediscover distance—
a bridge collapsing
under the weight of letters
we misplace,
meanings escaping
from our lips,
slipping
into rivers neither recognizes.
But without speech,
your glance becomes scripture,
each heartbeat a quiet sermon
binding me to you—
sacred silence
more eloquent
than a thousand poems
or promises.
Love, in our story, it seems,
prefers the silence of stars
over the chatter of people—
our shared quietness
holding the universe steady
in ways our words
never can.
Which is interesting.
We were born under one sky,
two breaths caught by the same breeze—
shaped from the same subtle clay,
crafted by fingers divine
into mirrors reflecting one another.
But in our silence,
we speak fluent galaxies,
words woven of starlight,
heartbeat songs whispered
in rhythm perfect as rainfall—
understood completely,
beyond definition or sound.
Yet language stumbles
from our tongues like foreign shadows—
clumsy, uncertain travelers
lost somewhere between our lips and hearts,
spilling secrets that no longer
sound familiar,
fractured syllables
in place of seamless whispers.
And suddenly
the simplest words
carve us apart,
a canyon between reflections,
echoes misunderstood—
beauty turned foreign,
two rhythms out of sync
dancing separately
beneath a shared moon.
It hurts—
this love wrapped
in confusion's thorns,
to hold lips
yet feel the pulse of connection
then to speak and feel the pulse
of a stranger,
to gaze into eyes you know when speaking,
yet see nothing
of what you believed
was already yours.
But in quiet
we rediscover
truth spoken
in silence's dialect,
an allegory
of love's deeper clarity—
where your quiet presence,
stronger than a thousand words,
binds us gently,
speaking
louder, clearer,
than all that language
could ever muddle.
How can a love so full of knowing
become so foreign in sound?
How can voices that once danced
now step on each other's feet,
tripping, stumbling, missing beats
like an orchestra without a conductor?
Is love never meant to be spoken
only felt,
only known in the spaces where silence
isn't empty, but full of everything
we could never say?
