Marriage—a garden where time folds inward,
each moment a seed from the past,
blooming anew in the present.

Every touch is a whisper of ancient vows,
every kiss, a relic of promises made beneath
stars that continue burning for both of us.

When we make love, it’s not just a meeting of bodies,
but a rekindling of spirits, and recurring memories,
where pleasure wears the robes of trust.

Forgiveness is there too,
woven into the fabric of us—
not as concession, but as quiet understanding.

Forgiveness that softens sharp edges,
leaves room for the tender work of soft hands
learning to hold without breaking.

Acceptance lies in the space between breaths,
in the silences that speak more
than any words ever could.

It is the knowledge that we are both
imperfect, both holy, and that love
is the thread binding those contradictions into one.

Marriage is the art of being chosen again, and again,
the certainty that even as we change,
we will find each other—

somewhere between what was
and what will be—
always, always, always saying yes.

What more could one ask for than this sacred rhythm
—the pulse of life and memory intertwined,
an unspoken celebration that says,

You are mine, and I am yours,
and together we are enough.