I have known lovers like storms—
sweeping in, blazing, then gone.
Some were meant to stay,
some promised themselves forever,
but always found a reason to leave:
a flaw, a fear, a circumstance
too cruel or too fragile to bend.
Each departure carved a hollow in me,
a space no one could fill,
and yet hope kept knocking—
a whisper of another beginning,
another chance, another fire.
But now, love comes with a price:
anticipation of its own death
before it’s even fully born.
Every glance, every touch
is edged with the knowledge
that I will always be the one left behind.
It’s not that I do not have value—
I see it, feel it, hold it in my bones—
but no one else has seemed to see it
with the same gravity I give.
And so the heart learns to armor itself,
to guard what it cannot risk giving,
to refuse the depth of joy
because it has tasted its mirror,
the loss too exquisite, too cruel.
I cannot face that death again,
that intimate, gutting heartbreak
that rips the soul and leaves only echoes.
Better to stand alone,
to feel the quiet ache of absence
than to surrender once more
to a love that will be stolen,
that will vanish
like smoke through trembling fingers.
And so I wait,
not for love, but for survival,
for the peace of knowing
the heart will endure
even if it never fully trusts
to be held,
to be wanted,
to be kept.
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