In love I aspire to unfurl my hands like petals at dusk,
releasing their hold as light thins into indigo air,
trusting each soul turns instinctively toward its own dawn,
and never mistaking grasping for devotion.

I bow to the truth that hearts bruise when they open,
that even roses ache beneath their own blooming,
yet I choose the higher vow that does not close at nightfall,
keeping its altar warm through the long blue hours.

So, I love as one who clears the garden at first light,
who waters the bud even when it leans away,
knowing grace is the courage to remain spacious,
and higher love is the dawn — chosen again, anyway.