We were taught to name things clearly: this is love and this is not. But life speaks softer— in shades, in pauses, in feelings that do not ask to be decided. Yes, there is a way between— felt by the heart before thoughts arrive.
I found within myself a quiet, hidden grace, a brightness long asleep, without a name or place. Once veiled beneath the noise, it slowly came to light— A beauty always present, now rising into sight. (Because of you)
Music slips inside ... Music slips inside, soft and steady— paintings follow, framed and near; And my chest lights up, still burning with a quiet fire I never learned to name.
I wait for winter’s tender hush... I wait for winter’s tender hush, for snow to hide me from the world; I’ll drink my cocoa, faint and warm, and watch the pale, unending day. I’ll write to ghost who never write, and read of love that fade away— while silence fills the little house, and time just slowly melts away.
Venice is no city— she is a dream that dreams of you, a veil of desire draped over the skin of the soul. A gentle wound of beauty, fleeting as a kiss in fog— a dream that melts into the mist, yet never fully fades.