This anonymous heart

Tag: writing

Promise

September 30th, 2026

I loved you once
like morning glories love the sun,
opening without being asked,
letting everything in.

Now I love you
like a vow written in ink
I cannot bring myself to cross out.

There is no cruelty in it.
No slammed doors.
No final scene.

Just years
settling quietly between us
until love became
less like falling
and more like carrying.

You leave,
and I do not count the hours.

You return,
and I do not run to meet you.

I listen first,

to the way you close the door,
the sound of your voice,

trying to understand
what kind of evening
has come home.

Sometimes I save things for you
because there is no one else
to give them to.

A funny thing.
A strange thought.
Something beautiful
I noticed in the middle of an ordinary day.

And sometimes,
before I finish,
I can already feel
that you are somewhere else.

So I stop.

You are tired.
Or busy.
Or distracted by something
I cannot see.

And the story folds itself
back inside me.

I have become very good
at carrying unopened things.

Perhaps that is why
I know how to carry this.

I said I would love you.

So I do.

I said I would stay.

So I stay.

But somewhere along the way
love became something
I do
instead of something
I feel.

It is in the dinner made,
the question answered,
the forgiveness offered
before it is asked for.

It is a thousand small acts
performed faithfully
by a heart
that no longer rushes
toward the sound of your name.

And sometimes
I wonder what it would be like
to love without having
to remember that I should.

To hear a door open
and be filled with joy.

To have someone’s name
rise inside me
for no reason at all.

To miss them
before they are even gone.

To see something beautiful
and ache
because they are not there
to see it too.

To love someone
deep in my bones.

Not because I promised.
Not because it is
the right thing to do.

But simply because
my soul reaches for theirs.

I used to believe
love would feel like that.

A reaching toward.

Something instinctive.
Something alive.

Like morning glories
turning themselves toward the sun
without ever being told
where the light is.

I think that is what I miss most.

Not passion.
Not romance.
Not a fairy tale.

Just the turning.

The part of me
that once opened
without being asked.

I kept the promise.

But somewhere
between then and now,

I stopped turning
toward the light.
A Moment

July 4th, 2025

Some moments in life are too beautiful—and too fragile—to capture with a photograph. The instant you reach for the camera, the moment shatters like glass.

I mourn that I cannot share these fleeting glimpses of beauty with the world. So instead, I quietly etch them into memory, tucking them away like hidden gems. On rainy days, I take them out again and let them fill my soul with light.

Since I have no pictures to show you, I will try to describe them the best I can.

Snapshot 1
One afternoon, I pause on my way to the market to watch a group of children playing in their front yard. The golden sunlight filters through the trees, casting a soft, almost magical glow over the scene. Their laughter rings out as they chase one another—completely unaware they are creating something sacred. No one is posing. No one is performing. Just pure, unfiltered joy.

Snapshot 2
There’s a small wooden house in my neighborhood, tucked between much nicer homes. A humble place—worn, but full of life. The family who lives there are day laborers, toiling each day just to put food on the table.

One day, I pass by and see the mother and grandmother bathing the baby in a small tub out front. As they tenderly care for the little one, the world fades around them. Their movements are gentle, their eyes full of love. It’s clear: this child is their treasure. This moment—so simple, so human—quietly stirs something deep in me.

Snapshot 3
And then there’s the man at the market who sells eggs. He greets every customer with the warmest, most sincere smile—like he’s truly glad you came. He carefully helps you pick out the best eggs, and always insists on giving a discount for larger purchases. He never rushes. He gives dignity to something small. Somehow, his presence feels like a gift.

I love beautiful things. And I find people the most beautiful of all.
Sometimes, those fleeting moments—where you catch a glimpse of something real and luminous—are worth saving in your heart.

Tag: writing

Promise

A Moment