The Architecture of Us

It’s not found in the silver screen,

Or the verses of a frantic pen;

It lives in the spaces in between,

The "text me when you're home again."

​It’s the quiet weight of a resting hand,

A shared look across a crowded floor,

The map of a life you didn’t plan,

Now leading to a familiar door.

​It’s the patience found in a tired eyes,

The grace for the flaws we try to hide,

A truth that outlasts the clever lies,

With nowhere left to run or inside.

​It isn't a fire that burns for show,

Consuming the air until it's gone;

It’s the steady heat of the coals below,

Still glowing soft when the day is done.

​Love is as much about showing up for the "boring" parts of life as it is about the highlights. Would you like me to try writing this in a different style, perhaps as a shorter haiku or something a bit more modern and edgy?