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.
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