I do not speak of love.
Not with the tongue that burns,
nor the heart that crumbles like old bread in the hands.
I come to you
as the sea comes to the shore—
again and again,
uninvited,
yet never asking to be held.
You have built a house of silence,
and in its windows, pain has planted vines.
You do not open doors for anyone anymore.
I have seen the ghosts you hide,
they walk with you in the late hours,
when even the stars look away.
I do not ask them to leave.
I sit beside them,
bringing no questions,
only a cup of warm tea,
and the patience of stone.
You laugh sometimes,
and it is like hearing music
from a broken instrument—
beautiful,
because it dares to sing.
I do not hold that sound in my hands,
but I remember it,
like a promise made in sleep.
I carry your hurts the way
trees carry winter—
not as a burden,
but as a season that must be lived.
When you forget to eat,
I bring food.
When your thoughts turn sharp,
I stay,
quiet as the earth
that still holds roots
even when the flowers are gone.
You are not mine,
and I do not seek to make you so.
The moon does not belong to the sky—
it merely shines there,
faithfully.
I have known this truth,
have learned to love
without touching,
to wait without hope,
to give without name.
I do not speak of love.
I ask how you slept.
I walk you home when the streets are hungry.
I repair what I can reach,
and leave the rest untouched—
wounds that bloom like wild roses
where hands have no business going.
Maybe one day,
you will turn your face toward me,
not as one saved,
but as one who finally sees
the quiet figure beside her
was never asking,
only giving.
Until then,
I will stay
where your shadow touches mine—
not as a lover,
but as the man who loved
enough
to remain
unnamed.
Broken Author 