A man's love in May is special. Not noisy, not loud. It does not have winter need and summer passion. It has respect, warmth and expectation. He does not demand, he feels. He does not shout about his feelings - he proves them.

He notices how the sunset plays on her face, how smiles bloom like tulips. He listens to her voice, like the wind in the foliage - not interrupting, but dissolving in it. He remembers what kind of coffee she drinks in the morning, what books she likes, what songs make her close her eyes from memories.

In May, a man becomes a poet. Even if he has never written poetry. His actions are stanzas. His silence is a rhyme. His look is a confession in which there is no falsehood.

Love in May is when he carefully straightens a strand of hair at her temple, like a gardener protects the first bud. This is when he is near, even if he is not near. When she feels that someone truly hears her silence.

And perhaps this is the secret of true love: it does not scream. It blooms.