problably not this year

Perhaps I won’t tell you—
Hey... I like you.

Perhaps I will.
Alright then—
I love you.

(Not like I’m in love with you,
but there’s something soft here.)

What is love, anyway?
Is it endless? Is it safe?
Is it soft hands on tired days,
or fireworks under quiet skies?

Dear Love,
I don’t know who you are yet.
But I know the love I have for God,
for my family—
it runs deep.

When shall we meet?
Where will we fall?
Will it be gentle...
or will it catch us like a storm?