They say that love is hard to see,
A whispering ghost, a mystery.
It isn’t control, nor silent pride,
But enduring light we hold inside.

It’s offering time, the rarest gift to share,
A presence that comforts, that lightens despair.
It’s hearing their echo in a song’s soft refrain,
Or feeling their spirit in the hush of the rain.

It’s holding their memory when they’re far away,
A silent wish that joy will light their way.
It’s hoping, waiting through the endless night,
For one lost voice to set the world aright.

It’s caring more than words reveal,
A quiet ache that time won’t heal.
It’s gentler smiles when they are gone,
Yet holding their memory, pressing on.

It’s wishing peace for them, not pain,
And standing by them through the rain.
It’s letting go when that feels right,
And hoping their days are warm and bright.

It’s finding beauty in their flaws,
Tracing constellations in their scars.
It’s patience, kindness, steadfast trust—
A bond no tide of time can rust.

It’s missing them in crowded halls,
A silent longing that softly calls.
It’s joy and sorrow, hope and fear,
The cherished echo of their laughter near.

So love, I think, is all these things—
The ache, the joy, the hope it brings.
It’s knowing when to hold, when to part—
A gentle wisdom carried by the heart.