Held

بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ

In my hand, dear wife, you are the blooming rose, growing upon a vine, towards a height, no human knows, though for sure, it is my hope, your petals kiss the sky, and find therein, grown to their fullest, all our dreams and Joy, brought to fullest life. To do no harm, to never hurt, to always ease your road, to never make you feel less, but only instead, to be one that lifts, raises, caresses, holds, kisses, to be one that protects, grows, enriches, nurtures, revives, gives, somewhere inside this string of verbs, the definition, what I might call of love, if pure it remains, untouched by any need of mine from it, so long I remember, that all came from Him, always being as you are, simply my Gift.