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
About the Creator
Catherine Ngendo
I write for future reference. I write to calm my thoughts. I write because it gives me joy
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Craft Over Catharsis? What the hell does that even mean? The phrase came out of a curation meeting as a genuine question. We had been noticing that many challenge entries, across prompts, naturally gravitate toward trauma, grief, and personal reckoning. That makes sense. Writing is often cathartic. It's one of the ways we process what we've lived through.
By Vocal Curation Teama day ago in Resources
Comments (1)
This oozes the simplicity of real love, the kind you find in the routine monotony of every day life and stands the test of time. Beautifully written.