The Language of Us

Not starry skies nor whispered rhyme,

But tangled sheets at morning's chime,

The way your hair falls, sleep-tousled grace,

A smile upon your sleepy face.

Not candlelit and grand displays,

But lazy Sundays, in a daze,

Your hand in mine, a mug of tea,

Silence shared, a symphony.

Not grand pronouncements, fierce and bold,

But stories whispered, secrets told,

Vulnerability, raw and true,

A fortress built for just us two.

Not fleeting passion, burning bright,

But embers glowing, warm and tight,

A love that deepens with each year,

A comfort that dispels all fear.

For in the quiet, mundane days,

In whispered jokes and gentle ways,

A love so deep, it takes my breath,

You're home, my love, in life and death