WHISPERS OF AN ENDLESS LOVE

 

 

WHISPERS OF AN ENDLESS LOVE

 

I have loved you quietly, long before I knew how to speak about love.

 

Before I learned how to shape feelings into words,

and before I discovered that every heartbeat could form a poem,

I had already felt you in the spaces where dreams gather

and where silence turns into something soft and warm.

 

You were the unnamed feeling,

the reason I looked toward distant skies

as if waiting for a sign,

as if hoping that somewhere, across the map of fate,

someone else was looking at the same sky,

feeling the same longing.

 

Love, they say, arrives like the wind.

You cannot see it, but you feel every part of your soul move.

 

And that is how you came.

 

You were not thunder,

nor lightning,

nor the kind of chaos that tears worlds apart.

You were the gentle rain,

falling upon the drought I didn’t realize existed in me.

You made the barren soil of my heart green again,

and suddenly,

even the smallest things became miracles.

 

I remember the first time I spoke to you—

how the world softened around the edges,

how time paused as if it wanted us

to live just a few seconds longer in that moment,

as though the universe whispered,

“Pay attention, this matters.”

 

And it did.

 

Your laughter was sunlight breaking through overcast clouds.

Your voice was warmth wrapping around winter.

The way you said my name—

it was like it was always meant for your tone,

your rhythm,

your breath.

 

From that moment on,

every poem I wrote had a trace of you,

every line was a prayer to keep you close,

every word was a wish

to make you stay.

 

I did not know love could be quiet

yet echo in every corner of my soul.

 

I did not know love could be gentle

yet shake the deepest parts of me.

 

I did not know love could be soft

yet change everything it touched.

 

But you—

you taught me.

 

You taught me that love was not something to chase,

nor something to fear losing.

Love was something to nurture,

to water,

to watch grow like a blooming garden

in the middle of my ribs.

 

You showed me that love

was not found in grand gestures

or the drama of falling,

but in the simple things—

 

in the way your hand found mine without searching,

in the way you listened to my silence,

and the way we could sit together,

saying nothing,

yet feeling everything.

 

With you,

I learned that love is not loud.

Love is presence.

Love is peace.

 

And yet,

love is also fire.

 

Because when I am near you,

I burn.

Not with destruction,

but with passion—

with the kind of warmth that lights lamps

inside cold rooms of my past,

reminding me

that I am not meant to be lonely,

that life is not only about endurance,

but also about beauty,

connection,

belonging.

 

I never believed in destiny,

until I met you.

 

You made accidental moments feel intentional.

You made coincidences feel like divine orchestration.

You made time feel like it had been waiting

for the right chapter to begin.

 

Maybe we were not written in the stars,

but we were certainly written in the quiet corners of the universe

where hope gathers,

where faith awakens,

and where love waits patiently.

 

Some people say love is temporary,

fragile,

a burst of color that inevitably fades.

 

But when I look at you,

I see something eternal.

 

Not because of perfection,

but because of truth.

Because even when we disagree,

even when storms rise,

we remain.

We hold.

We choose.

 

Love, with you, is a choice

I am willing to make every day.

 

When the world turns heavy,

I want to carry your worries

as if they were pages in a book

we are reading together.

 

When the night feels endless,

I want to be the voice that says,

“It’s okay. Rest. I’m here.”

 

When doubt whispers lies into your ear,

I want to be the reminder of who you are—

of your strength,

of your beauty,

of your worth.

 

Because loving you

is not simply about feeling.

It is about choosing you,

in moments when love is easy,

and especially in moments when love is work.

 

Even when distance stretches between us,

even when uncertainty rises like a fog,

I choose you.

 

Even when fear tries to silence what we built,

even when the world tries to distract us,

I choose you.

 

I choose you in the mornings,

when sunlight spills through the window

and warms our skin.

 

I choose you at night,

when darkness settles

and we can only see each other

through whispered words and quiet touches.

 

I choose you in chaos,

in calm,

in storms,

in peace.

 

I choose you

not because I have to,

but because my soul cannot imagine

any other direction to grow in

except toward you.

 

And if someday,

the world pulls us into a future

neither of us can predict,

I hope you remember one thing—

 

You were loved,

not accidentally,

but entirely,

fully,

completely.

 

Not with borrowed words,

not with temporary affection,

not with fleeting passion.

 

But with devotion.

With sincerity.

With truth.

 

Because every poem I write

begins with you,

and every ending

still finds its way

back to your name.

 

You are my favorite story,

my calm after long seasons of uncertainty,

my answered prayer,

my unfinished poem.

 

And I hope—

in this lifetime,

and in every lifetime that comes after—

we continue to write our verses together.