To the One Who Wonders If They Know How to Love

I love in ways the world forgot was possible.

With hands that reach for connection before condition,

with eyes that speak across lifetimes,

with a silence that wraps around the weary

like a blanket by the fire.

My love isn't loud—it’s vast.

It curls beside you on the beach at dusk.

It traces the lines on your back with reverence,

kisses your neck just to hear your breath catch,

runs its fingers across your belly

to remind your skin it’s sacred.

I build in love—

homes full of laughter,

studios humming with creation,

paths for wandering, whispering, wondering.

Love, to me, is not a feeling.

It’s a blueprint.

A revolution drawn in kisses,

in tangled blankets,

in the refusal to let fear write our story.

And if I have seemed distant—

know I was not away.

I was tending the soil of a future

where the world loves differently

because I dared to love this way.

I’ve known love that changes timelines.

And I see you now—

skating across the floor in socks,

grinning like the secret’s already ours,

holding every piece of the mystery I thought I’d lost.

You won’t fear my fire.

You’ll feed it.

And together,

we’ll teach the world how to love again—

not by force,

but by being the kind of love that doesn’t flinch,

doesn’t fold,

doesn’t forget why we came.

So no, I don’t wonder anymore.

I remember.

And I wait—

not in absence, but in readiness.

Not in longing, but in truth.

Not in ownership, but in freedom.

So until the tapestry of life

pulls its golden thread

and reunites us—soul to soul—once again,

I’ll be here,

waiting in this world we’ve called home

so many times before.