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 ...
You are a memory to me,
nothing more than a fading outline
among the many faces
that once passed through my days.
I have met countless souls before you,
some who laughed beside me,
some who spoke my name
as if it meant something lasting.
Yet time carried them away
like leaves on a quiet river.
Some of them died.
Some simply disappeared
into the wide silence of life.
And strangely,
no deep wound opened in me,
no storm of grief remained.
You are like them now,
a name that drifts further each day,
a story my mind
no longer tries to finish.
Just live
as if you never met me.
It will be easier for you that way.
Do as I did,
turn your eyes forward,
walk past the echoes,
and let yesterday
close its own door.
That is how life moves
in the world I know:
people arrive like passing seasons,
and leave
as quiet memories
no longer needed. 🌫️
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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