Like dawn spilling across the hills, love begins not in finding, but in becoming— a quiet shining that draws all things near, a warmth that teaches the heart to speak in sunlight instead of fear.

Out of the simple, the sacred blooms: your name spoken softly, bread shared, laughter rising like incense. Love is not thunder, but music— a rhythm the soul remembers.

Veins of one root, we climb toward the sky together, our dreams intertwining like morning glory. Nothing of us is lost; we grow by giving ourselves to the other's bloom.

Every moment returns to the beginning— a garden, a promise, the wind whispering through open hands. Love does not fade; it becomes the air between two hearts that believe.