Where the Heart Writes

Where the Heart Writes


I wrote you first in lines of light,
Where shadows bowed to morning’s might.
No voice had named you — still, I knew,
The way the sky leans into blue.
Before your hands had touched my skin,
You lived in every song within.
Each verse I penned, each silent prayer,
Held pieces of you, unaware.
Love is not found — it’s softly grown,
In words we speak when we’re alone.
It blooms between the lines we share,
In ink, in breath, in whispered care.
I write of you not just in rhyme,
But in the turning wheel of time.
In fleeting glances, held too long,
In aching silence between song.
You’re there in pages left unread,
In thoughts I think but never said.
In coffee warm and nightfall's hush,
In every bloom, in every blush.
You linger like a sacred hymn,
Soft on the air, yet full and brimmed.
A rhythm only hearts can feel,
Too wild to name, too true to steal.
I’ve seen you in a stranger’s laugh,
In mirrored dreams split clean in half.
I’ve heard your voice in waves that break,
In every dawn my soul could take.
And though the world may never see
The full, unspoken depths of “we,”
I’ll write — as if the stars conspire
To set these trembling lines on fire.
For love, when true, needs not be loud.
It speaks in hearts, not to the crowd.
And if my words are all I give —
Then know: in them, we’ll always live.
So let the poets think it art,
But what I write — I write from heart.
Each letter shaped, each phrase begun,
Is proof that two can live as one.