Writers 
Love is a gentle flame,
warm enough to light a heart,
yet fragile enough
to flicker in the smallest breeze.
I hold it carefully,
this feeling that lifts me
and frightens me
at the same time.
Your smile says “stay”
Your silence whispers “go,”
and somewhere in between
my heart tries to understand the truth.
Some days love feels certain –
like sunlight touching water, clear, warm, real.
Other days it trembles
like a question with no answer,
a voice asking quietly,
“What if this isn’t what it seems?”
I want to believe
in every word, every promise,
every moment that feels like forever.
But doubt sits in the corner,
not shouting –
just watching,
waiting,
wondering if love can truly hold.
Still, I choose to hope.
To give space for trust to grow,
to let honesty breathe,
to let love try again.
Because sometimes
the strongest hearts
are not the ones without doubt –
but the ones that love
in spite of it.
In the quiet hours I trace the edges of this uncertainty,
feeling how it softens rather than shatters what we share.
Each hesitant step becomes a quiet act of courage,
and the space between us holds both fear and the slow return of light.
