You wrote of love as if it were skybound,
melting into cloud, fading with the breeze.
But I wonder if it ever truly landed for you.
Love isn't the momentary shimmer
that catches the eye before dissolving.
It’s the quiet revolt
against disappearance.
It’s the cup left out for someone else,
the word held back to protect,
the patience that goes unnoticed.
Not always beautiful,
but enduring.
If it faded,
perhaps it wasn’t love that stood beside you.
Maybe it was longing –
dressed in the soft colors of affection.
Love does not evaporate with grief.
It weathers it.
It stays.
And if it faltered,
don’t call it a noble death.
Call it a trial,
one that deserved to be met with presence,
not surrender.
Because love,
real love,
doesn’t drift away.
It learns how to stay,
not despite the storms,
but because of them.