No vows were spoken,
none were needed;
those moments were heavy,
unbearably long,
incessantly agonising.
He said nothing of love
but stayed,
and in that persistence
there was a strength
words could never hold.
When pain drew its sharpest edge through me,
his hand found mine
and did not move;
not many words,
just presence,
anchored and sure.
He brushed the hair
from my damp forehead,
fingers tracing
the pain's sting,
gathering in the beads of sweat
as though to lift the hurt away.
Then a kiss —
soft,
quiet,
where the perspiration clung;
not passion,
but a vow unspoken.
and beneath his breath,
a whisper:
“I’m here.
I won’t go.
I’m not moving.”
The words settled between us
like light after storm,
a simple truth
resting against the ache.
And when the pain began to ease,
his hand still held mine —
not to comfort,
but to remain.
Because love,
I learned,
isn’t loud,
nor free of pain —
it is the staying,
the walk together
through the light and the dark.
No comments:
Post a Comment