The gentle squeeze of our lover’s hand
as one of us drives
(Where to? It doesn’t matter, just drive, love.).
A grace of silence
while the other momentarily
regresses into a tantrum
(A taciturn lantern that says:
There is light. Come back when you’re done.).
A soft space created
for all their quirks
and eccentric twists,
that we will never fully understand,
to land and expand.
A fertile soil,
a humus dense with nutrients
for our loved ones to plant their seeds,
not knowing what fruits they will bear
(if any at all),
yet staring at the sprouts with them
(Look at what you grew, love.)
With these almost whimsical gestures
brimful with tenderness,
we are ghostwriters
in the life stories of those we love.
Impacting them in the background,
slowly eroding at their
pointless beliefs and fears with love,
so they can find their way back
Though the work of art
that is another human
will only ever carry their name as author,
may we acknowledge our own life’s
And their persistent contribution,
never putting their pen down.
May we whisper to them
as we go on stage to collect
the accolades of our life:
“My name may be on it,
but you fully co-created this with me.”