There are days I wonder if I belong to another time—
not one gilded with grand palaces or powdered wigs,
but a quieter age, when love was slower.
When hearts opened over folded letters,
creased and smudged with the trembling of first confession.

I do not hunger for flashing lights or loud declarations.
No, I long for something gentler—
a glance held a second too long,
a thumb brushing across a teacup as if by accident.

Give me a morning walk where words are few,
but presence speaks louder than poetry.
Give me a Sunday picnic beneath a canopy of trees,
where bees hum hymns and laughter is enough.

Let affection show not in jewels or posts,
but in the warm return of a hand placed at the small of my back.
In surprise visits that say,
“I was in the neighborhood, but really—I just missed you.”

I want to sit by the sea and say nothing at all.
To stargaze, not for wonder alone,
but for the way the sky makes us feel small together.

Perhaps I was not made for this quick kind of love,
rushed and easily undone.
Perhaps I belong to something simpler—
where love lingers,
sinks deep,
and stays.

Copyright © Wynter Rayne 2025. All Rights Reserved.