They begin as small trespasses
a voice leaning closer than speech,
a chord that admits what the mouth won’t.
Love songs promise forever in borrowed light,
folding ordinary days into something luminous,
teaching the heart to believe its own echo.

But they also remember the rest
the long work of staying, the quiet drift of leaving,
doors closing softly enough to be mistaken for mercy.
In their fragile arrangements they confess it plainly:
love is not the song we inherit,
but the one we keep trying to sing.