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.
Sep 30, 2025
Sep 30, 2025 at 5:33 PM UTC
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.
