O my heart, how quietly you entered the night of my life— a lantern trembling in a storm, yet certain of its flame. You came as dawn unstitching the dark with fingers soft as the breath of first morning, and in your eyes I saw a sky I had forgotten I once belonged to.

Love — (that shy, ferocious architect of destiny) — built its cathedral in the hollow of my ribs, set its bells to ring whenever your name brushed the corners of my wondering mind. I felt you before I understood you, heard you in the pulse behind every silence, called for you long before my mouth learned the shape of your truth.

For love begins not in the meeting of hands but in the secret meeting of wounds— where your sorrow wandered barefoot into the wilderness of mine, and both our shadows paused, astonished at their resemblance. We are not merely lovers; we are two storms who recognised the same orphaned thunder.

I knew you in the way rivers know their oceans— by longing, by ache, by the quiet surrender of everything that came before. You arrived with the calm conviction of someone who has walked through fire and still believes in embers. Bless the courage that taught you tenderness; bless the tenderness that taught you me.

And yes— there were nights when the world pressed its cold mouth to my hope and whispered of endings. But your voice rose against the doubt, gentle as Dickinson’s twilight hymns, fierce as Angelou’s unbroken flight, wild as Whitman’s sprawling soul singing its untamed “yes” to life.

You held me in the strange, holy sanctuary between your laughter and your fear; and there, I discovered that love is not a fragile bloom protected by careful hands— it is the root that breaks the stone just to reach the sun.

O my beloved, I have wandered through the deserted corridors of my own mistakes, carried the ruins of who I was like a ghost folded inside my pocket. Yet when your light touched me, even my scars remembered they were once doorways into something braver.

Do you know what you are to me? You are the hush before the revelation, the breath that steadies the trembling poem, the pulse that shakes the ink into confession. You are the dream that insisted on living, even when I did not believe I was worthy of waking.

Let the world turn its thousand indifferent faces— here, in the simple miracle of us, there is a universe that listens. Here, where your heart leans into mine, time folds softly into meaning. Here, in the cradle of your arms, I am no longer the warrior always braced for battle— I am the pilgrim who finally found a place to kneel without fear.

And if the heavens ever ask me why I stayed, why I returned, why I breathed your name as though it kept the night from collapsing— I will tell them this:

Because there are souls that echo in the same key, born from the same ancient spark, lit by the same trembling miracle of being alive in the same moment upon the same trembling earth. And you— you are the echo that answered mine. The glow that rose when I was dimmed. The shelter I never knew my storm desired.

So come— let us walk the rest of our days like two wanderers who finally understand the destination was never a place but a person. Hold my hand, and the world becomes wide again. Touch my cheek, and time writes itself patient. Speak my name, and my heart kneels in holy gratitude.

For love—real love— is not a promise; it is a resurrection. And when I found you, I found the part of myself that remembered how to rise.