I cradle you in soft flame,
storms may rise but stay the same;
my palms, your shield from the gale,
your breath, my most sacred tale.
We carved vows on midnight seas,
anchored deep by whispered pleas;
no storm shall divide the skies,
no tear shall be left to rise.
When tempests seek out the soul,
I will be your quiet whole;
when the edges fray and burn,
I will cradle your return.
If sorrow weighs down your knees,
I will gather fallen leaves;
wreaths of hope will crown your brow,
where the trembling dreams allow.
Should the night stretch cold and long,
I will weave the stars to song;
each lost prayer in silent air,
I will catch before despair.
Even when the river dries,
even when no words arise;
I will build from ash and bone,
temples where you're not alone.
Should you stumble through your fears,
I will thread away your tears;
sew the rifts of unseen aches,
guard the heart that never breaks.
If rage howls through broken glass,
I will simply let it pass;
tend the wounds with patient balm,
turn the thunder into calm.
I will not release your hand,
though the earth may crack the land;
I will hold when all else fades,
when the final twilight breaks.
No blade forged by fleeting rage,
no cold distance, no lost age,
could ever unbind the thread
that my soul to yours has bled.
When harsh winters steal the green,
I will still recall the spring;
and in barren fields we stand,
still you'll find my open hand.
Each sharp silence we will brave,
each wild doubt we both forgave;
and in every shattered breath,
promise will eclipse the death.
Even if the words grow slow,
even when the stars forego;
my spirit will shout and sing—
"You are my unbreaking wing."
Through each battle, through each night,
through the wane of fading light;
never shall my fingers fall,
from the echo of your call.
Thus I live within your thread,
tied to every word you've said;
I remain—unclaimed by woe,
in hands that do not let go.