What's left of me is not a heart, only a hollow that beats out of habit.
What's left of my voice is not a song, only silence wearing the mask of speech.
What's left of my hands is not warmth, only shadows reaching for things that never stayed.
I am not a storm, I am the ruin storms leave behind, the cracked walls, the ash where fire once lived.
So do not pity me. There is nothing left to grieve, only a shell that learned too late that love carves deeper wounds than hatred ever dares.
But should there come one soul who stands in these ruins and whispers, thou art enough, then hear this, for it is no promise but a spell.
I will love thee past the marrow, with devotion sharp as broken glass, with a hunger that burns like winter fire, with a heart, though splintered, more faithful than any whole.
And in my loving thou shalt never walk unmarked, for my name will be written in every quiet corner of thy life, as if love itself were a curse too deep to break.