It’s not the milestones
or the big declarations —
not the trips,
the anniversaries,
or the plans we never finished.
It’s the little things.
The way laughter filled the hallway
before either of us said a word.
The way a couch became a haven
when your head found my chest
like it had always belonged there.
The way you ran to the door
like love was urgent.
The way silence never scared us —
because presence
was louder than words.
It’s the soft shuffle
of bare feet across tile
calling me to bed
without saying a thing.
The unspoken language
of fingertips and timing.
It’s how ordinary things
felt sacred.
How ice cream and TV
somehow held more weight
than the world outside.
I miss what can’t be staged.
I miss the glances
that forgave
before the words caught up.
I miss the comfort
of being chosen
without condition.
And maybe that’s love —
not the firework,
but the flame.
The steady kind.
The kind that waits quietly
on a well-worn couch
still holding the shape
of something real.
-
Author:
Samuel (
Offline) - Published: July 31st, 2025 06:46
- Category: Love
- Views: 13
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Cheeky Missy, Violet_Writes
Offline)
Comments3
a lovely write
Thank you. You should see the original, private one.
I enjoyed it, so easily related to
So well said in poetic form a message to often not noticed or remembered. Your words well chosen transport a soft memory of such times and leave a nostalgic almost melancholic feeling of peace. Nicely done and a fave
❤️❤️
My pleasure
Very nicely written, a gentle trip down the loving memory lane, and all the little things that made it all worth while and we always miss the most, very relatable write, enjoyed the read
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