We built a garden out of promises,
each word a stone, each smile a seed.
Your hand was steady, mine was trusting,
together we gave the earth what it would need.

The days were gentle, the nights were kind,
I leaned on you, and you leaned on me.
The bond we made was more than spoken—
it was roots unseen beneath the tree.

But storms arrive without a warning,
a careless act, a shadow cast.
The faith I held slipped through my fingers,
the future crumbled into the past.

I asked you once, “Was love still sacred?”
I asked you twice, “Was truth still near?”
But silence burned more loud than thunder,
and in that silence, trust disappeared.

I walked alone inside our garden,
flowers wilted, colors died.
For what is love without its shelter,
when honesty is pushed aside?

And yet, the soil beneath still trembles,
a stubborn life refuses end.
For even hurt, when met with courage,
may dare to rise and try again.

To rebuild trust is not a moment,
not a gift wrapped up in gold.
It is a slow and fragile labor,
a story written, line by line, retold.

It asks for tears, it asks for patience,
for walls to fall, for hearts laid bare.
It asks for nights of broken voices,
for mornings where you choose to care.

Some never find that path together,
they let the garden fade away.
Some plant again, with deeper meaning,
and watch the dawn replace decay.

So can trust return once shattered?
Yes—if love will light the flame.
But it will never be what it once was,
it becomes something new, with another name.

It is love that has known sorrow,
a bond that has walked through fire.
Not innocent, not untouched—
but stronger, braver, higher.