The Cost of Loving

The Cost of Loving

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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