This Kind of Love
It’s not the kind they write in books,
No perfect words or stolen looks.
But real, and raw, and sometimes bruised,
Still something I would never lose.
This kind of love is waking tired,
Yet holding hands though uninspired.
It’s fixing meals and folding clothes,
And laughing when nobody knows.
It’s knowing when to talk or stay,
To walk beside or move away.
It’s saying “sorry” with your eyes,
And loving still through lows and highs.
It’s mundane, yes, but sacred too—
It’s showing up, it’s being true.
A steady flame that doesn’t boast,
But burns when you might need it most.
So keep the fairy tales and dreams,
I want the love that builds, not gleams.
A home, a friend, a soul to trust—
This kind of love is more than just.
Ali Ahmod
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