At first, love looks like a borrowed thing,

A smile rehearsed, a promise worn thin.

It moves too fast, speaks too soon,

Like flowers blooming in the wrong season,

Bright but bound to the cold.

People hear noise and call it truth,

Feel warmth and believe it will stay.

Hands meet, hearts follow,

Yet something feels unfinished–

As if the story leapt ahead,

Skipping the chapter meant to be read slowly

So this love breaks–

Sometimes in silence,

Sometimes loud enough to reveal what it was never meant to be.

It leaves behind hesitation,

Space between hands,

The careful guarding of hope.

But time keeps what matters.

When the moment is right,

Love does not ask to be believed.

It does not rush forever or pretend too quickly.

It grows slowly, rooted in darkness regardless of its season,

Unafraid of waiting for the light.

This love understands patience.

It understands loss.

It knows that truth is not in how fiercely it burns,

But how quietly it remains.

And when it blooms,

It is not bright, nor dazzling–

Only real,

And enough.