Love poems that skip the cliches.

Your laugh still catches me off guard -- like sunlight through a doorway I forgot I'd left open. Come home. The kettle's warm. So is every room you've touched.

I don't need a holiday to tell you what you are -- but I'll take any excuse to say it in ink and watch you smile at paper.

Two years of you and I still can't believe how loud silence can be when it's full of someone you chose on purpose.

You're five hours ahead. By the time you read this, I'll be dreaming of your morning, and you'll be living in my tomorrow.

You wore your kindness like a second skin, and taught the world that soft is not thin. The rooms you enter learn to hold their breath, and every goodbye feels like a small death.

We built this thing without blueprints, just two people stubborn enough to keep hammering until the walls held.