The Quiet Mathematics of Us

We are not always roses,

or sunsets painted gold;

sometimes we are two tired souls

arguing over something old.

You steal the blanket,

I steal the last bite,

we disagree about everything

then laugh before the night.

Love is not always fireworks,

or promises dressed in rhyme;

sometimes it is simply staying

when leaving would be easier this time.

It is knowing my silence,

and I knowing yours,

two imperfect hearts

still choosing the same doors.

So if love is a journey,

we may wander, we may fuss—

but somehow, through all the wrong turns,

I keep finding my way to us.