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Poem

I loved a woman named Sophia—
Not a name, but a flame,
A living scripture written in curves and silk,
In her eyes, the ache of ancient saints,
In her smile, the promise of spring rain.

But I was mortal.
Soft. Whole.
Ready to kneel, to build her a throne
From the bones of my own longing.

She whispered love,
Then lay with a priest—
Not just a man, but cloaked in God.
While I wrote poems in the dark,
She prayed in tongues
Upon another’s altar.

And something in me broke—
Not like glass, but like silence after thunder.
Clean. Eternal.
The boy died that night.
In his place:
A shadow that read Marcus Aurelius at dawn,
A beast that walked alone, unchained, unweeping.

I tasted solitude like it was wine.
Bitter. Then divine.
I danced with shadows,
Sat with pain until it taught me peace.

Then—
When the fire had left my veins,
When her name was no longer a prayer but a scar,
She returned.
Barefoot, breathless, broken.

“Sophia,” I said,
But only in my mind.
My lips were sealed with ash.
My soul had turned to wind.

She chased echoes down city streets,
Searched faces, searched skies—
But I was gone.
A ghost in her story.
An absence louder than a scream.

And this—this is what love can become:
A mirror that teaches you who you are
After it shatters.
A teacher disguised as a wound.
A silence that speaks.

Now I walk not to be found,
But to be free.
Not to be loved,
But to be whole.

Let her tell our tale.
Let her cry in chapters.
Let her wonder what beast I became—
While I vanish,
Smiling,
In the pages she’ll never read.

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