Lope's Thoughts

It wasn’t meant to last, That’s what we said at the start, like two travelers sharing a fire just to warm the night, never planning the morning. We spoke in temporary words, in almosts and maybes, in careful laughter that never leaned too far into a promise. We told ourselves This was just a passing season. But love has its own language, one that does not ask permission. It grew quietly, in the pauses between sentences, in the way your name became the first thought of my day and the last place my mind rested at night. It lived in small things: fingers brushing without reason, silence that felt full instead of empty, eyes that lingered just a moment too long to be nothing. We tried to measure it, to keep it within the lines we drew, But love does not follow rules written by fear. It spills, it stretches, It stays. What was meant to be brief learned how to breathe, How to root itself in the spaces we left unguarded. And suddenly, Goodbye felt heavier than it should, like something unfini...

It is still me, the same woman who once unraveled at the gentle tremble of your voice, who mistook your presence for something sacred, something that would stay. Still me, the one who gathered your broken words like they were rare jewels, polished your silences until they shone like meaning, until I could call them love without choking on the truth. I am she, the girl who danced in your shadows, who laughed where you left emptiness, who filled the quiet spaces You never cared to understand. You played me, softly, almost beautifully, like a melody half-written, never meant to be finished, only meant to be felt and then abandoned. I was your passing moment, your borrowed warmth, the softness you reached for when loneliness grew too loud. And I, foolishly faithful to your illusion, wrapped myself around your absence, called it presence, called it love, called it forever when it was never meant to last. It is still me, the same heart you held without care, the same soul you touched without...

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

It is inside my thoughts that I have hidden you, a silent chamber where your name still lingers like perfume on forgotten air. You left your mark upon my heart, not lightly, not gently, but deep enough to become a wound that refuses mercy. A scar that does not close, because love once lived there, and it lived fiercely. Life moves forward. It does not pause for broken things. Morning still rises, streets still fill with strangers, laughter still finds its way to my lips. Yet beneath it all, There is an ache That time has failed to silence. Memories keep digging, relentless, uninvited. They unearth your voice, your touch, the warmth we once called forever. They replay what was as though it never truly ended. And though we walked away, though distance claimed what love once held, you remain. Not in my hands, But in my mind. An echo that stays awake, a presence that does not fade, a memory still alive in the quiet corners of my thoughts. For love may have passed, and seasons may have chan...

Every breath within my fragile ribcage Is born from the cathedral of your presence. Before air touches my lungs, It passes through the memory of you, Consecrated, trembling, eternal. You are the hush between my heartbeats, The unseen tide that governs The oceans of my becoming. Even silence bends toward you, Heavy with unspoken devotion. My thoughts are no longer my own, They are constellations spelling your name Across the dark velvet of my mind. Each whisper I release into the night Returns carrying your echo. You dwell in the marrow of my longing, In the sacred corridors of my pulse. Like incense rising in a quiet sanctuary, My love for you ascends, Slow, reverent, consuming. I have searched for language vast enough To cradle what I feel, But even the oldest stars Burn out before they can describe you. You are the gravity beneath my wandering soul, The quiet fire beneath my skin, The scripture my breath recites Without ceasing. Every inhale is a vow. Every exhale, your name. Every f...