love poems

Love poems for hopeless romantics; I'm the poet and you're my muse.

Allow me to introduce myself! With a poetry! [I am the author]
I speak of spirit, soul, and flame, Of humanity’s quest, our endless aim. Religion, memory, stories untold, Poetry woven with truths, oh! so bold.
By CA'Di LUCE * Confessions & Memories in Conversations with friends!/ It’s not a revolution—it’s a quiet evolution.9 months ago in Poets
Pure struck with a snowdrop and bit of a luck!
Pure as white, and gentle at sight, Luck descends in crimson shine. Upon the bloom, so small, so bright, Hope awakens in the morning light.
By CA'Di LUCE * Confessions & Memories in Conversations with friends!/ It’s not a revolution—it’s a quiet evolution.9 months ago in Poets
And there was Light!
And there was light, Breaking the silence of endless night. Shadows fled, creation started its whirred, Hope was spoken, and life was bestowed!
By CA'Di LUCE * Confessions & Memories in Conversations with friends!/ It’s not a revolution—it’s a quiet evolution.9 months ago in Poets
Oslo
Your scorching breath on my throbbing neck, Caresses me right there, where I am most vulnerable, My skin moves to the beat of your baritone voice,
By Myriam Melki9 months ago in Poets
Hope you . Content Warning.
I hope you win in 26, As I could t give much hate as you in for three years Never gave you a match to begin you hating on me
By Erica Williams9 months ago in Poets
History of Love
Love began where whispers met the wind, A silent vow, no face, no skin. Through forests old, it softly crept, In rivers deep, its secrets slept. A letter lost, a stone engraved, In every heart, it softly waved. Mountains watched, the stars aligned, Love’s story etched in space and time. In candlelight and ocean’s roar, It traveled lands and distant shore. Through storms and sun, it held its sway, In broken paths, it found its way. A melody hummed by unseen lips, It danced through worlds on gentle tips. No crown, no throne, no sword, no fame, Yet everywhere it breathed the same. Through quiet nights and morning’s gleam, Love lingered on in every dream. It built its home in stone and sand, Invisible, yet firm and grand. Through history’s scroll, it softly weaves, In autumn winds, in budding leaves. Though unseen by eyes, it shapes the skies, A silent truth that never dies.
By Muhammad Saad 9 months ago in Poets
Day 4
Can you be my song that never stops playing! Yes, it’s hard to understand so early, but in due time you will understand exactly what I’m saying!
By Jay LeTron Dobbins9 months ago in Poets
Is Loving the Right Person Less About Luck and More About Self-Knowledge?
True "loving the right person" isn't about luck, but about understanding yourself. Why are you always afraid of "loving the wrong person"?
By Emily Chan - Life and love sharing9 months ago in Poets
Day 3
It all started with a simple “hello” but my intentions were well understood within me! As I saw a future flash before me as I gather content from her page and took in the things she wrote. I now often dream of the first hello in person! Not sorry, but introducing the blue print of luv-making is a special process!
By Jay LeTron Dobbins9 months ago in Poets
The Bridge That Learned to Wait
The bridge stood still between two patient shores. It did not ask who would cross today. Rain spoke to its wood, sun warmed its scars. Every footstep left a memory, not a wound. Some hurried, some paused, some turned back in fear. The bridge never judged. It only held. Storms tested its faith, silence trained its strength. Nights taught it stars, days taught it hope. Though it never moved, it carried many journeys. And in waiting quietly, it learned the power of staying true.
By Muhammad Saad 9 months ago in Poets
Day 2
I was taking my mental travels and reading post and watching reels, minding my own business. Came across her reel and decided to explore her page! I clicked on her page and my phone went blank for a few seconds.
By Jay LeTron Dobbins9 months ago in Poets
He Waited. She Didn’t
She was pretty in the way ordinary mornings are— not loud, not trying, not asking to be remembered. Her beauty lived in pauses. In how she listened without interrupting. In how she smiled as if she knew something sad about the world but forgave it anyway. Her name was Lina. She worked at a small bookstore near the tram line, where the bell above the door rang like a polite apology. She spent her days shelving stories she had already lived and nights walking home with thoughts folded neatly inside her coat. That was where the first boy fell in love with her. His name was Evan. Evan noticed details the way poets notice weather. He saw how Lina tucked her hair behind her ear when a sentence mattered, how she reread letters before sealing them, how silence never made her uncomfortable. He loved her quietly. Dangerously quietly. Evan helped without being asked. He listened without fixing. He waited—believing patience was proof of devotion. He thought love was something earned by endurance. Then there was Marc. Marc arrived like a sound you don’t realize you missed until it fills the room. He laughed easily, spoke boldly, and lived as if tomorrow was promised but optional. Marc told Lina she was beautiful the first week he knew her. Not carefully. Not poetically. Just honestly. He took her coffee at midnight, dragged her into the rain, made moments where Evan made space. And Lina— Lina felt seen in different ways by both. With Evan, she felt understood. With Marc, she felt alive. The three of them crossed paths in shared places— a friend’s kitchen, a late train platform, a city that didn’t know it was holding two different versions of love at once. Evan never said how he felt. He waited for the right day. The right mood. The right version of himself. Marc said everything— sometimes too much, sometimes too fast— but always out loud. Love, Lina learned, speaks in many languages. Silence is one of them. So is risk. One winter evening, the truth arrived uninvited. The bookstore closed early. Snow gathered on the streets like unfinished sentences. Marc stood outside waiting for Lina, hands cold, heart open. Evan watched from across the road, words heavy in his mouth, timing sharp as regret. Marc reached for Lina’s hand. She hesitated— just a second too long. That pause held everything Evan never said. But Marc didn’t see the pause. He only felt the hand. And Lina let him hold it. That was the moment the story tilted. Evan walked home alone, snow filling his footprints behind him as if he had never been there at all. Loss is not always loud. Sometimes it is simply the sound of your name never being called. Weeks passed. Marc and Lina grew into each other the way some people do— imperfectly, passionately, with arguments that ended in laughter and mornings that felt earned. Evan became a ghost in familiar places. He learned how to smile without hope. How to love without asking for return. But one day, Lina found him in the bookstore, standing where she once stood. “You never told me,” she said. Evan nodded. “I thought you’d feel it.” She did. Too late. Some loves are lessons. Others are homes. Lina loved Evan in the way you love a chapter that made sense only after the book ended. Marc loved her in the present tense. And Evan— Evan learned that love withheld is not preserved. It is simply lost. Years later, Lina would remember both boys whenever snow fell quietly. One taught her how love feels when it stays. The other taught her what it costs when it waits too long. And somewhere in the city, Evan finally spoke his heart to someone new— not softly, not later, but now.
By Luna Vani9 months ago in Poets