There is a place inside you No map has ever traced, a quiet room behind the ribs where light forgets to stay. No one sees it when you smile, No one hears it when you speak. It moves beneath your laughter like a river running deep. It is yours alone to carry, not carved for other hands, a language made of silence Only your soul understands. Some mornings it is heavier, a stone you cannot name, And still you rise and wear your life as if it were the same. But pain, it does not leave you when ignored or pushed away, it waits within the folds of time, it learns you day by day. It is not your enemy, though it cuts without a sound; it is the truth you buried but still lives underground. And yes, there are nights it breaks you, when endurance feels too wide, when even breath feels borrowed And there is nowhere left to hide. Yet somehow you continue, not because you do not fall, but because within the breaking You still answer life’s call. You learn to walk beside it, not beneath it, not above...
It is that month again,
when love rehearses its entrance
beneath borrowed lights.
February arrives draped in velvet red,
perfumed with roses that bloom on schedule,
while storefront hearts beat
to the rhythm of commerce.
Affection becomes an exhibition.
Promises glitter like temporary gold.
And suddenly,
those who forgot your name in January
remember it in crimson ink.
Love wears many colors now,
red for passion,
pink for softness,
white for innocence,
but rarely the quiet, steady hue
of truth.
Feelings, once buried,
rise like ghosts
just for this appointed day.
Old flames flicker.
Lonely hearts echo louder.
Words long unsent
find their way to trembling screens.
Yet wisdom whispers.
Not every rose carries fragrance.
Not every confession carries weight.
Not every “forever.”
has survived a season.
Some loves appear only on calendars,
arriving with chocolates and rehearsed devotion,
departing before the month turns.
And even food joins the celebration,
tables dressed in sweetness,
desserts shaped like desire,
hunger disguised as romance.
But hunger is not love.
And spectacle is not substance.
So walk gently through this painted month.
Let your heart remain open,
but guarded by clarity.
Not every offered love
wears reality beneath its colors.
Some hearts bloom daily.
Others bloom only
on the fourteenth.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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