Love is a language I’ve never learned,
a song I hear but never sing.
I watch it bloom in other hands,
like something fragile, something rare,
but never something meant for me.
I’ve traced the outlines of daydreams,
stitched together from borrowed scenes—
soft laughter in the quiet dark,
fingertips that never flinch,
a voice that stays, that says my name
like it belongs to something worth keeping.
But reality is colder than fiction,
and love has always felt like a door
I wasn’t given the key to.
I knock, I wait, I wonder,
but no one ever answers.
Maybe I was made for solitude,
for empty rooms and echoes,
for learning how to hold myself
when no one else will.
Maybe love is like a train
that never stops in my town,
just passing through, leaving dust
and the sound of fading engines.
People say it’ll come when I least expect it,
like love is a trick, a shadow lurking,
waiting to catch me off guard.
But I’ve stopped expecting,
stopped waiting,
stopped hoping.
Because love is a story I know by heart—
but never as the main character.