love poems
Love poems for hopeless romantics; I'm the poet and you're my muse.
“She Is Made of Quiet Things”
She is made of quiet things— like early morning mist and the hush that follows a lullaby. Not loud, not sharp, but steady— the kind of presence that stays even after you’ve left the room. She doesn't knock. She lingers, in the scent of lavender on old scarves, in pages bookmarked with petals, in the way your chest feels just before you cry. She speaks in lowercase— not from weakness, but from reverence. As if each word is a sacred stone laid gently along the path back to yourself. She folds pain like origami— creases it, shapes it, until sorrow flies. She doesn’t ask for the spotlight— she becomes the candle. Burning low, but enough to keep you warm. There is nothing fragile about her softness. She is not the glass. She is the sea-glass— shaped by time, and tides, and the tumble of things others tried to discard. She remembers everything. The way people say “I’m fine” when they mean “I’m drowning.” The tremble in hands that have held too much. The silence between “I’m here” and “goodbye.” She has learned to read grief in the quietest corners— like a scholar of sighs. And yet, she is not sad. She is the garden after the wildfire. The first daisy through cracked pavement. The rain that remembers how to dance. She is tea left steeping too long— rich, dark, unexpectedly strong. She is the poem you didn’t realize was about you until the last line left you breathless. She is not for crowds. She is for late nights, low lights, and someone who listens all the way to the end. She is the stitch in your grandmother’s quilt that held it all together. The song your mother hummed while folding clothes with tired hands. The prayer your sister whispered to the stars without knowing she believed in anything. She is made of quiet things— but she has never been small. Her strength does not arrive on horseback. It walks beside you, barefoot, whenever your own legs give out. She is the kind of brave that doesn’t need to be seen to save. She is the pause before you say something true. The breath before you leap. She writes her name not in ink, but in the way you now speak more gently to yourself. She is the ache that reminds you you still feel. The joy that returns without fanfare. And when the world gets loud— when everything screams and shakes and spins— she waits. Not out of fear, but because she knows: The stillest ground is where the seeds take root. And when it all passes, as it always does, you will find her— barefoot beneath a tree older than memory, smiling, waiting, ready to walk with you again.
By Nasir Khanabout a year ago in Poets
“When the Earth Wore Her Wildness”
When the Earth wore her wildness, she did not ask for permission. She walked barefoot into thunder, and the storm paused — just long enough to let her pass. Her name was not written in ink, but in rivers, in the spiral of shells, in the slow bloom of moss over stones that had forgotten sunlight. She came with no language, only rhythm— the pulse of roots speaking to sky-bound leaves, the hush of fern-fringed mornings when even the birds whispered. She did not seek a mirror. She knew her shape in the way the horizon curved to hold her gaze, in how petals unfolded when she breathed. Hair woven from midnight rivers. Skin kissed by soil and storm. Eyes the color of dusk before the stars remember their names. She carried time in her spine— not the kind that ticks and runs, but the kind that waits. The kind that lingers. The kind that turns silence into ceremony. She was the hymn between lightning strikes, the sigh that lingers after the last bell, the inhale before falling. Men called her wild. Women called her free. But the Earth — the Earth called her daughter. She once sat with the wind, asked it where it had been. And it told her: "Everywhere you’ve buried your hurt." "Everywhere you’ve sung your truth." She listened like roots listen: without needing to be seen. She made altars of river stones and laced them with berry-stained wishes. She lit fires, not for warmth, but for memory. The ash told stories she had forgotten she carried. They said she was too much: Too loud. Too soft. Too fierce. Too tender. So she stopped folding. Stopped shrinking. Stopped dimming. She learned to become sky. Clouds gathered in her laugh. Birdsong nested in her ribs. And the moon carved its phases onto her fingertips. Her sorrow was not weakness— it was tide, pulling, releasing, reshaping the shore with every grief she dared to hold. She did not fear her darkness. She entered it with open arms, mined it for gold, for fireflies, for the words that refused to be caged. Each shadow had a name. Each wound had a song. And she sang them until they bloomed. Her body was not a cage— it was a cathedral. And every curve, every scar, was stained glass for the sun to pass through. She did not belong to anyone— but everything belonged to her. The trees knew her footsteps. The wolves howled her name. The rain bowed at her crown. And yet— she was never cruel. Only wild. Only true. She stitched forgiveness into the sky each time the world forgot how to love her. She didn’t break. She unraveled. Gracefully. Deliberately. And when she rewove herself, she used stardust and honey and bones. Yes—bones. Because she knew there is beauty in building yourself from what remains. She became the story that could not be erased. The verse that lingered after the book closed. She was legend. Not because of her glory, but because of her becoming. The Earth wore her wildness— and called it holy.
By Nasir Khanabout a year ago in Poets
UNDER THE MOON
🌙 "Under the Moonlight Under the moonlight, my love calls to me Shadows of longing, too strong to be free Can’t deny it, can’t pretend His memory walks beside me till the end And even when I’m on my way His echo in my heart will stay Under the moonlight, I still feel my baby But then a thought appears… Is it just a dream, or something real? Does he walk away, leave me here alone, While the moonlight hides what I feel? Oh, heart of mine, so full of pain, Why must you love in vain? Why does fate tear love apart, And steal my baby from my heart? But for his joy, I won’t resist I’ll hold my tears, and still persist To let him go, to set him free If that’s the love that’s meant to be Why… why did dreams fade away? Into another world, another day My path has changed beneath the moon Still I walk… with his shadow in tune.
By Ali Sadeek Ahmedabout a year ago in Poets
