Love is not red,
but a bluish sheen
like frost clinging to the edges of a withered petal—
quiet, delicate, grieving.
It echoes in rooms I’ve never stood in
but dreamt of dying in softly—
your name still caught in the lace of my breath.
Like spiderwebs in moonlight:
beautiful, invisible, breaking.
My ribs are glass when you smile.
Does that make you cruel, or does it make me fragile?
Tears hang like pearls in my lungs,
and I drown with grace.
(Love shouldn’t feel this much like drowning.)
The stars blink down with pity—
each one a slow, silver eyelash
shedding light on how I’m
held together by hurt and hope, both trembling.
You pressed your warmth
into my winter skin
and now I shiver even in summer,
missing a fire I can’t carry.
You made my heart grow teeth,
then kissed it with silence.
And it weeps,
not because you left—
but because you stayed long enough
to teach it how to ache with elegance.