Beneath the hush of crimson skies,
your hand in mine, a breath replies;
no sharper cry, no sweeter balm,
than quiet hearts in secret calm.
Through whispered winds, your fingers trace,
the sacred hymn across my face;
a fleeting brush, a silent plea,
that only boundless souls can see.
In spaces where the world grows still,
your warmth carves out my shattered will;
and sorrow folds within your palm,
a wounded bird restored to calm.
The fragile hour, the fleeting breath,
becomes a rose reborn from death;
and every sigh you lay on me,
unravels knots I could not free.
Your gaze, a feather on my skin,
soft rivers singing deep within;
no clamor breaks, no thunder falls,
where your sweet spirit gently calls.
The stars fall silent at your kiss,
the sky unthreads itself from bliss;
you hold the dusk in quiet hands,
and weave the dark with golden strands.
No blade nor storm could dare invade,
the citadel our hearts have made;
with every glance, you stitch the seam,
and cradle me within your dream.
Each word you speak, a falling leaf,
drifting through gardens of belief;
I catch your truths with open arms,
and drown in your disarming charms.
When sorrow beats against the door,
you lift me from the bloodied floor;
your voice, a balm no wound denies,
your breath, a prayer that never dies.
No kingdom holds, no empire keeps,
the sacred way your spirit weeps;
your weeping mends what breaks in me,
like rivers kissing wounded sea.
The sighs you breathe upon my chest,
become the oath I love the best;
for in those words unshaped by sound,
I find the place where dreams are found.
The aching hush of twilight's hand,
wraps us in songs we understand;
no need for crowns, nor heavy creeds,
your nearness sows my deepest needs.
Soft light entombs our fleeting hours,
within the clasp of ghostly flowers;
no thorn could mar, no drought erase,
the garden blooming in your grace.
Your touch unfastens ancient scars,
like candle flames unbind the stars;
each breath you gift, a mended thread,
each gaze, a vow where angels tread.
Where once I wore my doubts as skin,
you wove new heavens deep within;
and through the wreckage of my past,
your hands built temples meant to last.
The echoes of your silent prayer,
chase demons from my heavy air;
I drink the light you pour in me,
and bloom beneath your mystery.
A trembling heart, a steady flame,
you never once demand a name;
you love me best when I am torn,
and bless the places I am worn.
No sacred stone, no shifting sky,
could touch the way you let me cry;
no priest could weave a holier grace,
than the soft altar of your face.
We dance in hush, in solemn light,
with every heartbeat pure and right;
your hands, my sanctuary's gate,
your soul, the answer drawn by fate.
Thus in your arms, I rise, I fall,
and find my peace within it all;
a symphony of breath and gleam,
where gentlest mercies weave the dream.