Black hole love

My love is a black hole, silent, vast, misunderstood. It doesn’t explode. It swallows. Soft things. Sharp things. Every memory. Every maybe. I give and give and still it spins, pulling everything in without return. I don’t know where it leads, only that it holds so much: letters never sent, touches never returned, hope that clings even when hands let go. People think black holes destroy, but I know they preserve. They hide the ache behind my eyes, keep the laughter I didn’t get to share, fold time into itself until it’s hard to tell when I began or who I was before I started reaching. There is no light at the centre, but there is truth. A gravity made of tenderness. An ache too big to be named. And maybe one day, someone will see the beauty in a love that deep, and not be afraid to fall in.