i am unheard

Hmm. He stays. I never asked him to.

He laughs. I laugh. The moments gleam.

I cannot tell what’s false or true,

So I refuse to chase a dream.

If this is mine, it will not break

By waiting where my knees still bend.

God writes the stories hearts can’t make—

Thump, thump. Oh heart, don’t race ahead;

He’s here—but nothing’s promised yet.

A laugh, a song, a word half-said,

Enough to hope, not to forget.

So hush, hush, soul, unclench your hands;

If love is true, it needn’t flee.

I’ll bloom where quiet mercy stands—

I met a soul who spoke in measured light,

Who rarely chased the noise or sought the day;

Yet somehow lingered just beyond my sight,

Then smiled and quietly refused to stray.

We spoke of books, of songs the heart could keep,

Of little things the hurried world passed by;

He learned my silence, I his hidden deep,

Like stars that found each other in one sky.

He once said plainly, “Friend is all I see.”

I heard the truth and chose to loose my hold.

Yet still he walked the winding road with me,

And left no room for either heat or cold.

He sent a tune before he went to sleep,

A fragile hymn on strings too small to boast;

The kind of gift that promises to keep

No grand display—yet lingers like a ghost.

Perhaps this tale was never ours to write,

But God’s alone, whose timing flowers slow;

For love need not declare itself tonight

To prove the faithful seeds He chose to sow.

So here I stand with neither fear nor claim,

No grasping hand, no anxious plea above;

If someday he should softly speak my name,

I’ll know it came as answered prayer—not love

That rushed ahead of wisdom’s patient art,

Nor stole tomorrow from the Father’s care;

But grew, unnoticed, heart beside a heart,

We never learned each other

through grand confessions.

We learned in the ordinary—

in books passed across conversations,

in songs guessed from a handful of notes,

in stories watched before the world woke,

in jokes that knew where old wounds had been

and laughed without reopening them.

We met somewhere

between “I don’t see you that way”

and “You have my blessings.”

Strange place

to build a friendship.

Stranger still

that it kept growing.

You are not loud enough

to chase anyone.

I am not quiet enough

to hide my heart.

Yet somehow

neither of us ran.

So now

I no longer ask

if every glance means forever

or every song means love.

I simply wonder

why, after all this time,

when your hands learn a new melody,

mine are still the ones

you think to send it to.

Perhaps

that is all this season is—

not certainty,

but two people

becoming familiar enough

to recognize each other

in the small things.

And if heaven is writing

only friendship,

may it be a faithful one.

But if heaven is writing

something deeper,

then let it arrive

the way spring always does:

quietly enough

that no one notices

the exact day