contentment

In the quiet morning haze,
I confess—
contentment is a soft sweater,
worn and warm, familiar in its embrace.

It's the gentle hum of a bumblebee,
lost in the heart of a sunlit daffodil,
the crisp snap of an apple,
freshly plucked, bursting with stories to tell.

Contentment is the rhythm of rain,
tapping a symphony on the windowpane,
a dance of droplets, each a note,
playing the prelude to introspection.

It's the laughter in the walls,
echoes of shared glances,
silent conversations over steaming mugs,
where warmth is not just felt, but shared.

Contentment is the brush of a hand,
the softness of a whispered secret,
a moment suspended between heartbeats,
as eyes close, savoring the silent music of presence.

It's the slow drift of clouds,
painting stories in an expanse of blue,
a canvas that holds the weight of dreams,
yet floats above, untethered and free.

Contentment is the pause,
the breath held in a kiss,
the quiet space between words,
where meaning lingers, unspoken yet understood.

It's the stillness of dusk,
as day melds into night,
a seamless transition, a soft exhale,
where light and shadow find their balance.

And in the end,
it's the return to that quiet morning haze,
where I began,
content in the knowing that this—
this is enough.