We are gardens
untended by silent gardeners—
waiting to bloom,
yet the seeds remain pocketed
in unspoken wishes.
Flowers cannot flourish
if we never kneel to plant them.
We are canvases
hoping the brush will guess
the colors we dream of—
but artistry comes
when we offer palettes openly,
when we say:
Here is the shade of joy I desire.
We are melodies waiting patiently
in dusty instruments,
music hidden behind locked lips,
hoping our partners
might play them by heart—
but even the finest musician
learns the tune
by hearing it first.
We are meals
seasoned softly with expectation,
longing for flavors that live
only behind our eyes;
but the sweetness is richer
when recipes are shared aloud,
when we say:
This is what nourishes me.
We are journeys
with destinations tucked
deep inside our chests,
paths imagined yet unexplored,
dreaming our companion
intuits the route;
but the most beautiful trips
are mapped together,
guided by voices and vision
exchanged freely.
We are stories
waiting for storytellers
to guess every twist and turn,
characters aching for clarity—
yet the greatest tales
unfold openly,
lines written
and rewritten together,
each word spoken aloud,
each page cherished
in honest embrace.
Because to love
is to nurture clearly,
to paint boldly,
to sing fearlessly,
to cook generously,
to wander openly,
to write truthfully—
Love is the courage
to say out loud
exactly what we crave,
to trust that honesty
is strength,
and clarity is kindness.
We need no silent guessing
when there is grace
in the simplicity
of gentle words spoken
from hearts brave enough
to bloom.
