on seventh under amber streetlight, where the stoop keeps the evening warm,
i learned the map of myself in the dirt and the rhythm of the storm.
my father irons dawn into his hands, a wrench, a promise, a steady beat,
i grew up with oak and packed lunches, denim knees and gravel under feet.
you pass in a linen scarf by the corner bakery that smells like jasmine and lime,
you laugh in two languages that tumble like coins i can't count with time.
your mother wears silk on sundays, your aunt lays silver bright on the tray,
my cousins call your words foreign, and i measure every step i take away.
we whisper — we don't cross, two worlds holding back the heart's cost.
we smile, then walk the other way; keep our saying safe where shadows stay.
we whisper — we don't cross, two worlds holding back the heart's cost.
we smile, then walk the other way; keep our saying safe where shadows stay.
i learned my prayers in soft vowels, in the kitchen where the radio hums,
where my grandmother folds mornings into stories and stitches small bright drums.
you stand with callused palms and a grin that catches like steady earth,
my sisters warn that neighbors talk, that a ribboned name must match its worth.
i see your coat with patched elbows, the way you tip one careful hat,
you hum a working-man's anthem—simple, honest—and it makes me want to stay.
they say i should pick a cleaner promise, a ledger with a straighter line,
but the tide pulls at my hem when you look up, and i forget the rules of time.
i rehearsed a sentence on the porch: "your laugh fits into my quiet,"
i held the words like coins in my mouth while my mother's stare sat like an iron diet.
the syllables cracked under the porchlight; i swallowed the moon with the night,
let dust keep my echo — let it settle where the street forgets the fight.
we whisper — we don't cross, two worlds holding back the heart's cost.
we smile, then walk the other way; keep our saying safe where shadows stay.
we whisper — we don't cross, two worlds holding back the heart's cost.
we smile, then walk the other way; keep our saying safe where shadows stay.
i'll cross the avenue, trade the soil beneath my shoes,
i'll fold my tide into a pocket, learn the scent of your news.
i've kept my feet on cracked pavements, counted bus routes in my chest—
i've learned the stars above the harbor, taught my heart to want the west.
no more whispering — we cross, two maps, one song, we'll pay the cost.
two worlds holding hands at last, not afraid of what is lost.
we take one step where the light bends, where jasmine meets dust and dawn,
we hum an honest melody — the bridge we've built with borrowed songs.
we whisper no more.
