Second Bloom

I had folded my heart away,  
tucked it in silence,
as one tucks a fragile letter
into the back of a drawer.

I told myself,
Love had had its turn.

that the music was over,

that the dance was done.

But then you appeared,

not with thunder,

not with the rush of storms,

but with the quiet certainty

of morning light.

You did not ask me to forget

the shadows I carried.

You simply stood beside them

until they no longer frightened me.

Your laughter stirred something

I thought I had long since turned to stone.

Your touch did not demand.

It invited.

And in that invitation,

I felt my walls soften,

brick by brick,

until even the ruins of old love

looked like the foundation

for something new.

This second chance is not a return

to what was lost,

but a tender beginning,

a softer unfolding,

the kind that grows from patience

and the courage to believe again.

To love you now

is not to erase the past,

but to honour it.

To know what pain taught me,

yet still choose your hand in mine.

And if the heart is a garden,

then you are the bloom

I never thought I would rise again.

So, let the world say love is fickle.

It only knocks once.

I know better.

For here you are,

and here I am,

ready to begin,

not as if it were the first time!

Where Shadows Hold the Heart

 

You tell me you love me,

yet your eyes look past my face,

searching for someone

who lives only in the silence of memory.

Your arms are warm,

but your heart is an echo chamber,

still ringing with the laughter

of a love long gone.

I stand here, alive,

offering touch, offering today,

but you kneel at the altar of yesterday,

faithful to shadows I cannot chase away.

Is it love,

if your vows belong to a ghost?

Or am I only a visitor

at the graveside of your longing?

You say the words,

but I hear the distance,

a man chained to remembrance,

too loyal to the past to walk into the present.

And I,

left holding the ache of almost,

learn that sometimes love

is not enough

to resurrect the living from the dead.

Love Beneath the August Sky

August came with golden skies,
And love was glowing in your eyes.
The world slowed down, the sun sank low,
And all I needed was your soul's soft glow.

We met beneath the twilight air,
With tangled hands and hearts laid bare.
Each whisper danced on lips so near,
Your voice, my favorite thing to hear.

You held me close - no words, just us,
The warmth of trust, the quiet hush.
With every breeze, your touch grew deep,
Like secrets lovers vow to keep.

Your hugs were home - safe, pure, complete,
Like summer rain on thirsty feet.
And kisses? Oh, they wrote a song
That lingered on my skin so long.

August nights, with stars above,
Became the language of our love.
No promises, no planned tomorrows—
Just here and now, with joy and sorrows.

So hold me still, in memory’s light,
When summer fades into the night.
In every hug and every kiss,
August will stay - forever bliss!

When Summer Fell in Love

 June came wrapped in honey light,
And found us in the soft twilight.
The world was hushed, the stars were few—
But all I saw, that night, was you.

The air was warm with jasmine’s breath,

A moment far from time or death.

Your hand in mine, the world stood still,

Beneath the sky, atop the hill.

The fireflies lit secret signs,

Like love notes written in the pines.

We spoke no words, and yet we knew—

The month of June had made us two.

Each breeze that kissed your windswept hair

Was sweeter than the summer air.

Each heartbeat whispered something new—

The season changed, because of you.

Now every June recalls that night—

The hush, the stars, your eyes, the light.

A memory wrapped in velvet skies…

A love that bloomed where June still lies.

---

I Am My Own

You are not made of mirrors,

Nor echoes that fade with the crowd.

Your worth is not a whisper,

It does not shrink or shout aloud.

Not in the praise that lifts you,

Nor in the silence that forgets,

Your value isn't borrowed,

It isn’t weighed by one regret.

You are the breath behind the name,

The stillness when the world moves fast,

The ember glowing in the flame,

The roots that hold when storms have passed.

You don’t have to earn your place.

You are enough in still and strife,

A quiet force, a steady grace,

A soul that sings its own true life.

So, stand without apology,

Don’t bend to fit what others see.

Self-worth grows when we believe:

I am my own, and I am free.

Raised with Love

No need for thunder in my voice, 
No iron grip, no fearsome stare—
I choose a gentler, kinder choice, 
To meet your tears with patient care.

I will not rule with clenched command,

Nor strike the soil where trust might grow;

Instead, I’ll guide your little hand,

And walk beside you, soft and slow.

You are not clay to break or bend,

Not storm to tame, nor fire to quell—

You are becoming, my small friend,

And I am here to help you well.

When anger flares or sadness calls,

I’ll kneel and listen, not control—

For in the cracks of tantrum-ed walls,

I see the shape of your whole soul.

I will not shame your tender cries,

Or mock the dreams you try to build—

Your worth does not in silence lie,

But in a voice that feels fulfilled.

So grow, my child, in sun and shade,

In laughter loud and questions deep—

This love, though gentle, will not fade,

Its roots are in promises we keep.

Ready to Burst

I carry silence like a stone,

A weight that’s grown beneath my skin,

Where voices echo, all my own,

And battles rage but stay within.

My chest, a dam of unshed cries,

Of rage and longing tightly sealed,

Each heartbeat pounds like warning signs,

Of truths I’ve never dared revealed.

My lips know well the art of calm,

But tremble with the things unsaid—

A scream dressed up in quiet psalms,

A wildfire cloaked in words I’ve bled.

Tears wait like thunder in my throat,

Too proud to fall, too fierce to drown,

Yet storms don’t ask, they only float—

And strike when no one’s looking down.

How long can one soul cage a flood?

How long can sparks remain inert?

I feel the rupture in my blood—

These pent-up truths are ready to burst.

So if I break, or if I burn,

Don’t call it madness or disgrace—

Even the stars must twist and turn

Before they shine and split through space.