Today she sent a song…
      another melody waiting,
      notes patiently lined up,

      ready to be loved.

But I couldn't press play—
                  not yet.

Because the last song she chose
      had burrowed into my days,
      settled comfortably in my ears,

      playing itself endlessly on repeat.

I told her she'd have to wait…

      because interrupting perfection felt like musical betrayal.

Meanwhile,
      she made me wait too—
               days passed,
             no poems read,
   words hanging patiently…

   my ramblings paused mid-sentence.

Maybe that's our rhythm—
   notes exchanged slowly,
     words lingering long,
       each holding space,

   each willing to…
                   wait.

The melody we're making
    needs no labels,
    no definitions,

    no carefully placed words—

Maybe this is our secret language—
        words gently held hostage,
            each teasing patience,
               melodies suspended…

    each daring the other to blink first.

It's enough to know—
    we've found a sound,
                a quiet,
           perfect song…

    that neither of us wants to stop.