I wander. Not searching. Not hoping. Just moving through the ache, with a heart too full, for most hands to hold. I don’t expect. I don’t ask. I gave that up, when I realized, most only love, until it costs them something. What I carry, it isn’t romantic. It’s ruin-born. It’s grief that chose, to stay soft, instead of turning to stone. I’m not interested in dances, where no one feels. Where the “man” must be hollow, and the woman disappears. I’ve done both. I’ve ghosted myself before. Now, I just want real. Not pretty. Not perfect. Just someone who won’t flinch, when I show them, where it hurts. And who lets me hold, what they buried long ago. They say, “You’ll find someone.” But I stopped listening. Stopped looking. That path is all thorns, and illusion. If it comes, it comes. If not, this ache becomes my temple. This silence, my altar. Let me walk grief-soaked, abyss burned. Because love, for me, was never about getting. It’s about seeing. Really seeing. And choosing to love anyway. Even if no one sees me. Even if it’s never returned. Sometimes, it’s better, to burn alone, than to never light, the sky at all.
