Fourlinegraphia

Love did not ask for a receipt. It was here before the algorithm learned our names, before desire was shrink-wrapped and shipped with same-day devotion. Every screen insists on roses, on diamonds rehearsing eternity, on couples posed like proof- as if affection needs witnesses to exist. They sell us passion in curated squares, teach hearts to perform for applause, teach longing to pose, smile, and wait for a double tap to feel real. But love is not louder when it’s branded. It is not truer because it trends. What of the quiet lives- the hands that reach for no one at midnight, the beds that remember a body now gone, the people who love deeply and are still alone? They are not lacking. They are not behind. They are not unfinished stories. The world would have you believe love is something you prove, something you purchase, something you display or else explain your absence. Refuse that lie. Love is the call you make without posting. The meal shared with no photograph. The patience to st...

 I scroll past hearts that pulse and glow, Valentine’s Day on full display. Red roses chase me screen to screen, Diamonds wink like they know my name. I see a couple laugh on cue, A perfect moment, framed just right. You hand her flowers, bold and big, A love story priced overnight. My feed is dipped in sugar tones, Chocolate smiles, entwined hands. Every photo trimmed and tuned, Affection shaped by careful plans. I hear the ads call out to you: “Show your love-just buy some more.” Perfume promises forever, Teddy bears guard every store. But I keep thinking of the ones Who don’t appear in polished squares. The single friend. The quiet room. The widowed heart you never share. I feel the pressure too, you know- To prove that love has chosen me. To post a smile, to fake a glow, Or let the silence speak for free. I watch the brands count rising numbers, While teaching us what love should be. With trending tags and measured hearts, I wonder what is left of “we.” And yet I feel it somewh...

February arrives in its familiar gray, Soft cold lingering around Valentine’s Day. Hearts may flutter for a moment or two, But mine has learned how to stay-with you. I’ve lived long enough to know this truth: Love deepens with time, not only with youth. The calendar turns, the dates drift by, Yet loving you feels timeless, untried. My heart knows yours without needing words, In lingering glances, in hands gently stirred. With you, my dear, I feel unguarded, seen, A quiet fire, slow-burning, serene. In summer’s warmth or winter’s hush, It’s not urgency I feel, but trust. The nearness of you, the ease we share, The way your presence is always there. This love is not loud, it does not race, It moves at a tender, knowing pace. A brush of fingers, a lingering look, A story written, not shaken, by the years we took. So let dates and numbers fade away, They’ve never measured us anyway. Through every season, every test, With you, my love, I am deeply at rest.

In halls of learning, where our minds unfold, I feel the weight of truths we’re rarely told. We pay the price for knowledge we pursue, Each step exacts a cost we never knew. The books are many, the notes are few, My cup runs dry-and so does yours too. We rush from class to class, no time to think, Straight into tuition before we blink. I sit through lessons stretched absurdly long, Same slides, same jokes, the answers spooned and wrong. We memorize, forget, then memorize again, Calling it “progress of study” through clenched teeth and pain. We nod on cue, pretend we understand, While clocks crawl slowly, mocking every plan. Bored stiff by learning drained of any spark, Paying extra just to sit in the dark. I’ve felt the sting of pressure, sharp and plain, And we’re beaten down by stress and strain. Not always fists-but endless days, Pinched by time and rising fees we pay. I watch our parents carry silent pain, And we absorb the weight so they won’t complain. A sacrifice we make for bri...

 I stand south of this steadfast fig, where earth whispers its quiet limits, and I feel the weight of unspoken boundaries- a mirror to our own. The old fig leans with patience- half in the sun, half in argument, roots gripping what they know, branches reaching beyond their reach. The neighbors’ voices drift like leaves- they see only what is crossing lines, shade that encroaches, fruit that falls astray. They call it theft, an obstacle, a risk, a green obstruction too much, too close, too unruly. But I watch in silence- I learn its language without words, how it waits through seasons,bare, patient- then suddenly spills green into the air, how sweetness arrives quietly, without fanfare or warning. And I wonder- how often do we judge what we do not understand? How often do we see only boundaries, and forget the life that exists within them? The fig teaches humility- that strength lies in quiet endurance, that beauty blooms in patience, and that true respect requires us to see beyond ...

  Twilight’s hush in, where shadows play, The sky is stitched with silver light. Stars drift above the sleeping day, The scattered diamonds of the night. Great trees stand watch like sentinels old, Their leaves a crown of rustling gold; The wind moves through with unseen grace, A roaming breath in open space. The stars remain while cities race, While lives evolve in measured lines. The world performs its silent grace, Midst hidden truths and unread signs. The sunrise spills its painted flame To chase a dark without a name- A daily miracle made new, Though we may pass it, rushing through. I’ve walked beneath that open sky With hurried feet and distant eyes; I’ve felt the wind go brushing by While heavy thoughts refused to rise. I’ve missed the stars that meant to guide, Ignored the dawn I stood inside, And watched the time slip through my hand While trees remain to bend and stand. Yet when I pause-when I allow The moment space to reach me now- The stars remind me where I belong, The...