I never thought I’d find it—
love, that thing people talk about,
like it’s the air they breathe,
as essential, as invisible,
but heavier,
a whisper on some days
and a roar on others.

I’ve always been in love
with the idea of love,
the way it’s supposed to
fill you with butterflies,
turn your cheeks pink,
make you feel foolish,
blind and reckless,
like you’re walking on air
but somehow ready to fall.

Or maybe it’s that quiet kind,
that steady hand
that presses lightly on your back
and tells you,
in the calmest voice,
“You’re safe. You’re never alone.”
It’s tender, peaceful,
silent but powerful,
like the moon pulling at the tides.

And sometimes, I wonder
if I’ll ever know either kind.
Because I’ve felt it,
that flutter,
that warm blush creeping up my neck,
that sense of calm, too—
a peace I didn’t know
I could crave.
But I’ve never really
fallen, not in the way
they write songs about,
because I know what love can do.
It can change you,
twist you,
leave you in pieces
you don’t know how to gather.

I’m scared,
scared of what love asks for,
the way it demands
your trust,
your hope,
your heart,
your dreams,
and the risk that someone
could break every part of you,
unravel you slowly,
or all at once,
without even meaning to.

And I think of myself,
how flawed I am,
how I push people away
just before they get close,
because I know
I’d ruin it,
or worse—
ruin them.
I see the way I shut down,
the way I can’t communicate,
how I sabotage what could be
something beautiful
before it even has a chance to bloom.

I know I’m not good
for anyone,
not when I can’t give up
the habits that keep me
safe—
because really,
I’m terrified.
Terrified of the giving,
the trusting,
the baring of souls,
and the weight
of holding someone else’s heart
in my hands,
the power
to break them
without even knowing it.

It’s a power
I don’t want,
a power that could ****,
not just me,
but them—
the ones brave enough
to love me,
or anyone else.

But when I see others,
those who have found it,
found love in all its forms—
the wild, the quiet,
the tender, the bold—
I don’t envy them.
I stand in awe.
I marvel at their courage,
the way they hand over
something so fragile
yet strong in its own right
to another person
completely.

It’s love,
in all its terror and beauty.
It’s the thing
that can change us,
scar us,
heal us,
make us feel alive
or break us down to nothing.
It’s more than a feeling,
more than an emotion—
it’s something greater,
something I don’t know
if I’ll ever hold
or even deserve.

But I know this:
I’m happy for those who do.