The Steward’s Love
A reflection written in the spirit of devotion
There are moments when one pauses and considers what might be written to a beloved, if the heart were given full voice and the words allowed their proper weight.
This is such a reflection.
My Love,
I would not speak hastily,
for words once loosed admit no recall;
yet neither would I withhold
what honesty demands.
Love, when pressed as grapes
beyond their appointed season,
doth turn from sweetness unto bitterness;
and that which might have ripened
in due measure is made sharp by impatience.
And yet, would not a man hasten,
possessed as though loosed from Cupid’s bow,
to bring unto his lips that which remembrance
so tenderly setteth before him?
Would he not lay his kingdom gently
before those delicate visions
which the Fates, with aching brush,
do paint by knowing hand?
Is it not said that through love
all may be conquered?
Yet with a tantalizing smile,
and but a single glance
from eyes alluring and true,
may not even the strongest of men
be conquered utterly?
And if such conquest be accounted loss,
then gladly would I yield;
for what is kingdom weighed
against the quiet grace
of thy regard?
Know this:
I speak not of fevered fancy
nor of desire unbridled and rash;
but of that patient flame
which asketh not to burn the world,
only to warm the hand it holdeth.
If ever I lay claim to love,
it is not as tyrant nor as beggar,
but as steward,
willing to guard what is given,
and to wait where waiting is required.
Thus do I write unto thee,
not to press, nor to hasten,
but to confess that should love
be counted a conquest,
then I am conquered already,
and count it joy.
With the fullness of my love and steadfast devotion,
I remain thy humble and ever faithful servant.
Perhaps love is not about conquering or being conquered at all, but about choosing to kneel where one trusts the ground beneath them.
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—The Bathrobe Guy
There’s something disarming about framing love as stewardship instead of possession. It shifts the whole tone from urgency to care, like devotion measured by patience rather than intensity.
The idea of love as something guarded gently, not grasped, lands quietly but deeply.
So beautiful, but you knew I’d love it, didn’t you 🫠