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 ...
If your interest fades, do not dress it as love,
Do not wrap distance in smiles and borrowed gifts,
I do not want offerings meant to confuse my heart
Or gestures rehearsed to keep me quiet.
Step aside with honesty, not performance,
Let your silence speak plainly,
Tell me when you are finished
So I may stop waiting for what no longer comes.
Do not pretend affection where none exists,
I would rather face the truth barehanded
Than to be held by a lie
That slowly teaches me to doubt myself.
If you are done, say it without cruelty,
I will not beg, I will not chase,
I will open my hands, release you gently,
And let you go with my dignity intact.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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