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Love's Dark Reflection #lovepoetry #poetrydaily #poemaday

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 ...
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Love's Dark Reflection #lovepoetry #poetrydaily #poemaday

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 name.

The stars have closed their eyes.

Even the moon
turns away
from hearts
that mistake hunger
for devotion.

Still...

When darkness whispers
through abandoned rooms,
I find myself
searching for that beautiful lie again.

Because the cruelest truth
is not that love betrayed me,

it is that the thought of love
still knows exactly
how to find me
whenever I am
most willing
to disappear.


© 2026 Gloria Penelope

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