The morning murmurs your name,
soft as the hush between heartbeats,
as if the sun itself rises only
to trace your silhouette in gold.

Anna Stadnik--two syllables of warmth,
a melody the wind carries,
spilling through branches,
weaving into the hush of my breath.

Time bends in your presence,
seconds stretch like silk,
wrapped around whispered glances
and fingertips that remember every moment.

No need for roses or ribbons,
for love is the way your eyes
turn ordinary hours into something sacred,
the way your laughter lingers
long after the world falls quiet.