Poetry

Valentine

The morning is quiet. The light,

a pale hand slipping through the blinds.

I turn to you, as I have for years,

your breath soft against the pillow,

your face familiar as my own.

The world outside is bright with roses,

ribbons, the red insistence of love.

Once, we would have tangled ourselves

in the ceremony of it.

A dinner, a gift, a note folded

like a secret inside your palm.

Now, love is the steady thing,

the kettle boiling, the toast turning gold,

the way your hand finds mine

without thinking.

I see what time has changed.

Your hair touched with winter,

the careful way you rise from bed,

the silence we share, deep as water.

But I see, too, what it has left untouched:

the way you look at me,

as if love were still something to learn,