In the Book of Love

In the book of love, the first page is silence, a tender hush before the words arrive. It is written in glances and fragile beginnings, inked by the courage of opening hearts.

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Each chapter is a rhythm of laughter and ache, where joy and sorrow entwine like vines. Margins are filled with unspoken longing, and every tear becomes a secret footnote.

In the book of love, no ending is final, for the story rewrites itself with every touch. Its language is older than time or speech, yet always feels new upon the lips.

The last page is never truly turned; it folds itself back into the beginning. For love is not a tale we finish, but a living text we carry within.

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