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 ...
Do not measure your steps by another’s stride,
Your road was never meant to match theirs.
Destiny writes in different ink for every soul,
And comparison only blurs your own name.
Accept who you are, unfinished, becoming,
Exactly where grace placed you today.
Follow the road beneath your feet;
It knows you better than borrowed paths.
God has something stored in your tomorrows,
pages turning with each rising sun.
Though the words are written ahead of time,
Every day reads new, untouched, alive.
One day you will pause and smile,
seeing how the chapters found their place,
how the delays, bends, and waiting
were shaping a story worth keeping.
And gratitude will sit at your table daily,
not as a habit, but as nourishment
for when you trust your own unfolding,
Thankfulness becomes your daily meal.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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