I suppose,
you never truly love someone
until they become the storm
that unthreads your spine,
until their silence
becomes the sound you worship
in the temple of your ache.
Love?
It isn’t sweet.
It is a cathedral that burns from within,
while you kneel in the ashes
calling it sacred.
You only begin to love
when they wound you…
not with malice,
but with the elegance
of unspoken absence,
and yet
you still see the sun rising
from the corners of their name.
I have kissed the knives in their voice,
and still called it music.
I have bled beneath their indifference,
and still wrapped my ribs
in the memory of their laughter.
To be shattered
by the very hands
you once reached for salvation,
and yet…
to still believe
those same hands
could rebuild your ruins
with a single glance?
They broke me…
not loudly,
but in the kind of way
that flowers die
when winter forgets to speak.
And I,
I kept calling them spring.
Because love,
the true kind,
isn’t made of soft sonnets
and perfect nights.
It’s made of bleeding constellations,
devotion that survives the fire,
and the cruel miracle
of still choosing them
with every splinter left in you.
You only love
when you can’t stop
even after everything in you
is begging you to.
Love, my dear…
is the most violent act.
And I…
I am its willing casualty.
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