I used to love like open windows, light pouring in from every side, hands intertwined with many stories, no single shore, just tide to tide. My heart was built like a wide horizon room for constellations to exist, no promises carved into granite, just fleeting stars in gentle mist. And then you. You arrived without demanding that I fold the sky in two. You didn’t ask me to be smaller I just wanted to choose you. It startled me, this quiet gravity, how all my wandering found a place. For the first time, love felt rooted, not scattered petals, but one steady vase. I untangled other hands softly, not because they weren’t real, but because something in my chest whispered: this is different. This is steel. I closed doors I’d once sworn open, let old flames turn into smoke. Not from pressure, not from fear but from a promise my own heart spoke. Loving many taught me freedom. Loving you has taught me depth. Where I once measured love in numbers, now I measure it in breaths. We are not perfect. Trust is not a switch we flip. It’s a bridge we build together, plank by plank, fingertip to fingertip. Some days we check the bolts twice. Some nights we name our doubts out loud. But every morning I wake choosing this one heart, clear and proud. I didn’t lose myself to love you. I didn’t burn my past away. I simply found a different rhythm one that asked my heart to stay. And for the first time in my life, forever doesn’t feel like a cage. It feels like planting something tender and turning, together, page by page.
