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 ...
My tears went dry
after seasons of falling without sound.
I thought sorrow was endless,
a well that would never empty—
But even grief grows tired of staying.
Life began to soften its voice.
The days hurt less,
the nights loosened their grip,
and I noticed a change
standing quietly at my door.
Happiness didn’t rush in—
It greeted me gently,
like it knew I was fragile,
like it respected
All I had survived.
I learned to smile without forcing it,
to breathe without fear,
to trust the warmth of ordinary moments.
The pain did not vanish,
but it stopped leading me.
My tears went dry,
not because I became cold,
but because I grew stronger.
Life got better,
and for the first time,
I welcomed it with open hands.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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