Love was never a heartbeat. It was the echo left behind after the heart forgot why it was still beating. It arrived wearing another person's face, its hands stitched together from promises that had already begun to rot. I welcomed it. Not because it was kind, but because loneliness knows how to mistake a wolf for warmth. Every smile it offered cast a longer shadow. Every whispered "forever" fed another ghost sleeping beneath my ribs. The thought of love is a clever liar. It builds cathedrals from broken mirrors, then asks us to kneel before our own reflections, calling the illusion destiny. How eagerly we obey. We water flowers that grow from graves, write poems to people who never truly existed, and embrace memories still unborn. Love watches. Silent. Patient. Like a spider waiting in the center of a web woven from hope. It never forces us inside. It simply lets us believe the silver threads are rays of morning light. By the time we understand, the sky has forgotten our ...
A failed marriage is not the end,
It’s not the closing of your days,
Not the burial of who you are,
Just a turn along life’s ways.
What broke was a chapter, not the book,
What ended was a season, not you,
There are still years God set aside,
Quietly waiting to unfold too.
Do not rush your healing heart,
Walk gently through the pain you knew,
Some lessons bloom only in time,
Some strength grows slow, but true.
There are more faces yet to meet,
More hands your own may come to know,
And somewhere, love may be ahead,
Soft-footed, moving slow.
So keep walking—do not run,
Let hope keep pace with breath and feet,
For happiness has its own way
Of finding souls it’s meant to meet.
You are still whole, still becoming,
Still written in tomorrow’s plan,
What ended did not finish you—
It only proved how strong you stand.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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