We met when life had already
taught us to move slowly,
to listen before speaking,
to value what is rare.

You come from thousands of years of delicacy,
from silk, ink, and careful hands,
from traditions that learned beauty
through patience and balance.
Your grace feels inherited,
as if it was shaped long before us.

I come from the north,
from wind, stone, and open horizons,
from a simpler rhythm,
where silence speaks clearly
and honesty lives close to the ground.

You dance bachata with a softness
that turns movement into language.
When you hold my hand,
I want to learn,
not to impress,
but to follow your rhythm,
to meet you where closeness begins.

You love with generosity and care,
giving without asking,
and in your presence
even my quiet nature opens.
You bring colour to my calm,
depth to my simplicity.

We met late in life,
yet it feels as if two long paths
were always meant to cross.
Your ancient grace and my northern calm
finding harmony
in the same slow dance.