A poet is only as good as their definition of poetry,

But what is love if not a thousand ways to see?

A whispered word, a glance that lingers near,

An aching silence only hearts can hear.

Is love the verse that dances on the page,

Or is it the quiet pulse that won’t disengage?

Is it the metaphor that paints us wild,

Or the simple truth of holding hands like a child?

A poet will carve with the sharpest ink,

But love is the feeling we can’t quite think.

Not in rhymes or rhythms neatly strung—

But in moments unsaid, where the soul is sung.

So call me a poet, but love is the key,

For my poetry lives in the you and the me.

In every pause, in every sigh,

In all the things that no words can deny.