A Poem by A.S.
They told me love arrived in pairs,
as if the moon apologized
for shining all alone.
But no one spoke
of mornings
where silence pours matcha beside you,
where every sunrise
belongs to no negotiation
but your own becoming.
There is a strange abundance
in an untouched side of the bed,
a kingdom hidden
inside ordinary peace.
No eggshells beneath bare feet.
No waiting for footsteps.
No shrinking
to make another comfortable.
Only breath.
Only room.
Only the remarkable sound
of a heart remembering
its own language.
I have learned
that solitude is not the opposite of love,
it is often
its first honest teacher.
It asks,
Who are you
when no one is watching?
What dreams survive
without applause?
What laughter
returns when fear finally leaves?
I answer
by dancing in the kitchen,
buying chocolate
for no special occasion,
reading until midnight,
taking roads
with no destination,
and leaving space
for miracles
instead of obligations.
Some call it being alone.
I call it
coming home.
If love knocks again,
let it arrive
with gentle hands
and honest eyes.
Until then,
I will not confuse
my peace
for something missing.
I have discovered
the rarest romance of all –
the quiet privilege
of belonging
completely
to myself.
