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 ...
They speak of love
as if it were a kingdom,
a crown worn proudly,
a ruler of the heart.
But not in my world.
In my world,
no throne was built for it,
no anthem sung in its name,
No flag raised in its honor.
They call it destiny,
a force that bends the soul,
a strange, glowing gravity
that pulls lives into its orbit.
But not in my world.
It never walked my streets,
never knocked on my door,
never breathed within my walls.
They say it conquers reason,
that it sweetly deceives,
turning wisdom into whispers
and strength into surrender.
But not in my world.
It never lived to rule me.
It never rose to guide my steps.
It never played a role
to quietly fool me.
Others may kneel before it,
may build their lives around its flame.
But in my world,
love was always just a story.
a strange, distant something
that never learned my name.
© 2026 Gloria Penelope
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