I did not come here to be saved by love.
I came here to find healing in words,
I came here carrying what love broke,
what it taught me to endure,
what it stripped from me and left exposed.
The oceans know this story.
wild white horses of the sea,
They have taken everything from the shore
and still keep returning,
not to apologize,
but to continue.
Love arrived once like weather
generous, consuming, indifferent to consequence.
It altered the climate of my body,
shifted my inner seasons,
taught me how quickly warmth can turn
into a different kind of cold.
When it left, it did not leave silence
it left debris,
and I had to learn which pieces were still mine.
I wandered for a long time through the wreckage.
Not searching for what was lost,
but for what had survived.
Some wounds stayed open out of habit.
Some griefs learned to speak in my voice.
I mistook longing for identity,
mistook pain for proof of depth,
until even the stars grew distant
from the questions I kept asking them.
The sky did not answer.
It continued burning without concern,
galaxies turning,
constellations holding their shapes
while I unraveled beneath them.
I called upward anyway,
as if endurance might be rewarded with instruction.
Nothing descended.
No sign, no correction
only the vastness remaining vast.
It was the depths that responded.
Not with comfort,
but with truth.
The ocean did not explain my suffering
it showed me how to move while broken,
how to be shaped by force without dissolving.
In its tides I learned that pain does not cancel motion,
and that survival is not passive.
I remembered then who I had been before love
asked me to disappear into it.
Before I learned to measure my worth
by another’s hunger.
Before my voice softened itself
to be kept.
I began gathering myself slowly,
not by memory,
but by presence
by listening to what still stirred beneath the ache.
The body remembers differently than the heart.
It knows what it has carried.
It remembers touch,
and the absence of touch,
taste that once felt like belonging,
scent that meant home.
Those sensations did not vanish
they changed function.
They became markers,
not of loss,
but of survival.
I saw then how love had been both teacher and wound.
How it sharpened me
and cut me at the same time.
How it showed me my capacity
by exceeding it.
The pain was not a failure
it was evidence of having lived fully into risk.
Inside me, the struggle continued
not between good and evil,
but between surrender and erasure.
Between becoming
and vanishing.
I learned that falling is easy,
and that rising is quieter,
less dramatic,
requiring patience and perseverance rather than faith.
Time loosened its grip.
Days did not heal me
attention did.
I stopped asking who I was supposed to be
and started noticing who remained.
What stood after love passed through me
like fire through a forest,
leaving soil dark,
but capable.
I no longer ask the heavens for permission.
I no longer wait for love to redeem itself.
I am learning how to stand
without being held,
how to choose myself
without turning cold.
This is not bitterness.
It is clarity.
I am becoming someone
who knows the cost of devotion
and still chooses depth
but not disappearance.
Someone who can love
without abandoning the self
to be kept.
If I find myself now,
it is not in the absence of pain,
but in the understanding of it.
Not in rescue,
but in continuity.
I am still here.
And that, after everything,
is enough to begin again,
After the Storm,
I Remain.