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We don’t say love every time we mean it—
sometimes it’s coffee left warm on the counter,
a glance that lands soft
when the day has been hard.
It’s the silence that holds, not hangs.
The joke you always laugh at,
even when it’s old.
The way your hand finds mine
like it remembers
where it belongs.
Affection isn’t loud.
It’s steady.
It shows up,
folds laundry,
waits out storms,
knows the shape of your sigh.
We don’t have to name it
for it to be real.
What we keep bet