Like Jasmine and the Mango Tree

I long to be loved

the way jasmine loves the mango tree—
not with the urgency
of storms that arrive loudly
only to vanish by dawn,
not with the hunger
that consumes more than it creates,
not with hands that grasp
yet never truly hold,

but with the patient devotion
of something tender
that understands how to grow slowly,
how to wait for the right season,
how to climb softly
until it becomes part of another soul.

I long to be loved
in the language of roots and fragrance,
where nothing needs to be shouted
to be known,
where affection moves quietly
through bark, branch, leaf, and bloom,
where presence itself
becomes a form of prayer.

Let it begin gently—
with kindness laid down
like fertile earth,
with trust watered daily,
with laughter falling
like first rain on thirsty ground,
with eyes that listen
before lips begin to speak.

Let love not rush us.
Let it learn our silences,
memorize our wounds,
trace the old fractures
we hide beneath polished smiles,
and kiss them not with pity
but with understanding.

I do not ask
for a love made dazzling
for the eyes of strangers.
I do not ask
for grand declarations
that bloom brightly in public
and wither in private.

I ask for the sacred ordinary—
for tea shared in tired evenings,
for fingers finding fingers
in crowded rooms,
for a voice that says
I am here
and means it
even in the hardest hour.

I ask for the kind of love
that flowers together.
When one of us rises,
the other rejoices.
When one of us bends,
the other becomes shelter.
When one of us falters,
the other remembers the road.

To flower together—
what blessing is greater?
To unfold petal by petal
without fear of being plucked,
to reveal our truest colors
in the safety of shared sunlight,
to become beautiful
not alone,
but beside one another.

To bear fruit together—
to make of our union
something nourishing,
something sweeter
than either life alone could offer.
Dreams ripened by patience.
Homes built from gentleness.
Memories hanging golden
from branches of time.

Rooted in purpose,
not drifting like leaves
at the mercy of every wind.
May we know why we chose each other.
May we return to that knowing
when days grow heavy,
when misunderstandings gather,
when the world outside
becomes loud and cruel.

Soft with happiness—
not the fragile joy
that depends on perfect weather,
but the deep happiness
that survives ordinary days,
that smiles while washing dishes,
that hums while folding clothes,
that rests its head
on a beloved shoulder
and finds enoughness there.

I long for a love
quiet yet alive.
Not silent from absence,
but peaceful from certainty.
A love that does not need
constant proof,
because it breathes steadily
through every season.

Soulful in its giving,
never counting
who gave more yesterday,
never measuring affection
with scales too small
for what hearts carry.
A love generous as trees—
offering fruit to the hungry,
shade to the weary,
beauty to those
who did nothing to earn it.

Abundant in its becoming—
for true love is never finished.
It is always arriving,
always deepening,
always discovering new rooms
inside the same old heart.
It changes shape
without losing essence,
grows older
without growing cold.

May we spread joy
without trying.
May children laugh near us
without fear.
May strangers feel lighter
after meeting us.
May our home smell of welcome,
our table of plenty,
our words of mercy.

May we offer shade
to those scorched by sorrow,
fragrance to those
who have forgotten beauty,
sweetness to those
who have known only bitterness.
Let our love overflow
beyond ourselves.

And when seasons turn—
as all seasons must—
when bloom becomes fall,
when petals loosen,
when branches ache with years,
when faces change
and mirrors speak honestly,
let us not be frightened.

Let me love the silver in your hair,
the slowing in your step,
the stories you repeat,
the softness age places
where pride once lived.
And let you love in me
the lines grief carved,
the pauses wisdom left,
the tenderness time taught.

Let us care for one another
through harvest and drought,
through illness and healing,
through nights too long
and mornings too uncertain,
through the seasons
when love feels effortless
and the seasons
when love becomes choice.

For sometimes devotion
is not candlelight or poetry,
but medicine at midnight,
patience in pain,
forgiveness after storms,
remaining
when leaving would be easier.

Until time itself grows tired
of counting our days,
until clocks loosen their grip,
until even memory
begins to close its eyes,
let us rest at last—

not as strangers
who once shared a house,
not as names faded
from each other’s mouths,
but as two lives
still gently woven,
still carrying traces
of each other’s scent,
still bound by roots
too deep for death to sever.

I long to be loved
the way jasmine loves the mango tree—

patiently,
faithfully,
fruitfully,
beautifully—

until the earth is quiet
and we remain,

still entwined.

— Chippy Mohan