To live is to suffer.
To love is to suffer.
To create is to suffer.

Existence itself is stitched with sorrow,
but in its aching seams,
blooms something beautiful.

So we must choose —
choose carefully
who, or what, we are willing to suffer for.

And I chose you.

I chose to cradle the weight of your name
in the hollow of my chest,
to love you through the good, the bad,
the moments that left us broken and bleeding,
the silences heavy as tombstones.

I sit now, in the wreckage of what was,
thinking of forever —
the whole nine yards,
a life I painted in the colors of you.

But you're not here anymore.
You exist only in fleeting fragments,
ghost-thoughts
of laughter in a room now silent,
of touches I’ll never feel again.

And I am the reason.
I carry that like a stone in my gut,
a burden I won't set down.

Yet, I choose to be better,
to climb out of myself,
to carve light from the grief.

Because as long as my lungs rise and fall,
as long as my heart dares to beat,
I’ll remember —
your arms were the only home
I ever truly knew.

And maybe one day,
this suffering will shape me
into someone worthy
of loving like that again.