I poured my love into a well
I could not see the bottom of.
Each word I said dissolved like rain,
each name I called rose up, then fell
back into silence, back to you,
unreachable as morning sky.

I learned to love without return.
I learned to give without a ledger.
I learned that love could be a verb
that needs no echo, needs no answer 
just breath, and presence, and the light
of watching you become yourself.

And then 

without warning, without cause,
without a reason I could name
you crossed the room and found my face
and pressed your lips against my cheek,
soft as a secret, warm as grace,
and disappeared back into you.

No prologue. No explaining it.
No aftermath. No asking why.
Just that. A sudden gift,
a hug that fell like summer rain
on ground that had been waiting long
and did not know how thirsty it was.

Those unannounced, unbidden moments 
your arms around me like a word
you didn't know you knew, but meant 
they are the whole of it, my love.
The whole of what I hoped for once
and found in ways I hadn't planned.

The world will never understand
the grammar of the love we speak 
no syntax borrowed, no translation,
a language only we have learned:
your silence, and my listening.
Your stillness, and my staying near.

But I have held you in my arms
and felt you hold me back unprompted,
fierce and fleeting, real as light
and I have known, beyond all doubt,
that love unreturned is still love given,
and love given is never lost.

So I will keep the well filled up.
I'll keep on calling out your name.
I'll keep on hoping, keep on watching
for the moment you cross the room again
and find me waiting, always waiting,
ready for the gift of you.

This post is a part of Blogchatter A2Z Challenge 2026.