If Love Asked Me to Explain You

If love asked me to explain you,
I wouldn’t use grand words first.
I’d say you are the feeling of exhaling
after a long day of pretending I’m strong.
You are the moment my shoulders drop
because I finally feel safe enough
to stop bracing for loss.

If I had to compare you,
you’d be morning light slipping through curtains—
not demanding attention,
just gently insisting that everything will be okay.
You don’t arrive like a storm.
You arrive like calm,
and somehow that’s more powerful.

You’re like a song I didn’t know I needed
until it started playing in the background of my life.
Now everything feels off
when you’re not there.
You’re not loud love—
you’re the kind that stays,
the kind that learns my quiet.

Loving you feels like walking barefoot
across familiar floors at night,
knowing exactly where the light switch is
without needing to look.
It feels like trust without questions,
like comfort without explanation.

You are coffee shared slowly,
cooling between us
because we’re too busy talking with our eyes.
You are hands finding each other
in crowded rooms,
reminding me that no matter where we are,
I am not alone.

If love were weather,
you’d be the soft rain
that doesn’t ruin plans,
only makes the world smell sweeter.
If love were time,
you’d be the hours that pass unnoticed
because happiness doesn’t keep track.

I love you not for the way you shine,
but for the way you stay steady.
For the way you choose me
on ordinary days,
when love isn’t dramatic—
just real.

And if forever ever feels frightening,
I won’t promise it loudly.
I’ll promise it quietly—
in every small decision,
every gentle touch,
every day I wake up
and choose you again.

Because loving you
isn’t something I do.
It’s something I am.