Layers of Love

Beneath soft morning’s rose-tinged light,

our shadows stretch like whispered truths—

draped over the bed’s worn quilt,

we breathe in sync, undone at the seams.

I trace your jaw, a fragile cliff,

where half-spoken promises cling.

Your breath is smoke from memory’s hearth,

fingering embers of earlier dreams.

Our love is sediment, forged in time—

a cathedral built of unspoken hours,

each stone laid when we dared to say nothing

and let silence stretch across our scars.

I’ve learned your laughter is rain on tin—

metallic, crisp, a bright interruption

to the drone of ordinary days,

a call to witness the magic in the mundane.

Your tears are tiny oceans I map

with trembling fingertips—

salt and sorrow, brine of history,

carved into canyon roads of your soul.

We are layers of sedimented heart,

ancient and fresh, brittle and whole—

you, a book of open pages,

me, a manuscript still writing itself.

By dusk, we fold into twilight’s verse,

voices soft as moth wings,

our words half-finished prayers drifting

over embers of the dying fire.

In your chest, I find hidden chambers—

once locked, now open, pulse-grey jewels

resting on velvet of past hurts,

beating beneath epidermis like secret drums.

And in those chambers, I plant seeds:

small vows of everyday care—

a cup of tea before sunrise,

your coat draped across kitchen chairs.

I see in you the ache of being alive—

the fierce hunger to belong,

the quiet prayers whispered halfway

between fear and fierce devotion.

The night draws its velvet curtains,

stars bloom in your pupils,

and I wonder how many lives would pass

before I learned to hold you like this—

with reverence for each layer unveiled,

patience for each brittle year,

gentleness to cradle every fracture,

and courage to touch the ones you hide.

Because love is an archeologist’s task:

careful, slow—

dusting off relics of tenderness,

cataloging shards of loss and hope.

Each morning, we wake anew—

a fresh excavation site—

unearthing laughter in our ribcages,

discovering softness we forgot we owned.

We press our palms—warm geology—

hands mapping the strata of our days:

first kisses, late-night conversations,

walks through autumn-gold streets.

And under all that, a core remains:

a heart unbroken, beating still—

proof that time cannot erode us,

that each layer adds its own strength.

So peel another layer away with me—

let’s show each other marrow-deep truths,

let the world see how our hearts

have been built, broken, and rebuilt—together.