I dream of a story that maybe only exists in films a book of love filled to the very end. Somewhere, our first page is waiting to be written Warm, tender hands I can touch and feel, guiding mine along this path called life Hands that paint my life with soft colors of the evening sunset Where on quiet nights we count the stars in the sky, hoping to find our names written among them. Where the serenity of your voice remains, like a violin whose melodies can move even the coldest heart. on other nights dream of the future we are writing Writing it slowly, one line of love at a time A person I can grow old with, like memories that never fade. Someone who, even in our old age, still guides my steps someone I will love and cherish until we bid goodbye A home not built of brick and mortar but of love. As our steps grow slow with time, I hope your old wrinkled hand still finds mine the way it did in the beginning. So that when the final page of our story turns, we can return to our younger selves and say We made it This love we dreamed of was never just a dream And we have lived a remarkable life together, until the stars grow dim