Heartbreak
The house burns slowly,
without scream, without sin,
only the gentle breath of fire,
like two bodies that loved each other until forgetting,
until the ash
became their only embrace.
The road shatters
into blind mirrors,
and in every opaque vial
your face takes shape again:
a guilt without name,
a longing
that smells of rained-on diesel,
imprinted upon old asphalt.
I believed we were the only light
that knew no cracks,
but even light
breaks
under the weight of promise.
On a night without a calendar
we swore,
with burnt hands,
upon the holy book
consumed in the trunk
of a car without memory.
Our prayer
broke the cosmic alarm:
a song without air,
a promise buried beneath the siren
of a police forgotten by angels.
Everything we touched became evidence.
Nothing breaks:
not the wall, not the moon,
only the heart,
that silent wound
that knows how to split
without the blood becoming visible,
just as no one sings anymore,
only the walls crack
like bones regretting
they were once alive.
In the air - the scent of burnt love,
dust and unfinished words
find their place among ruins.
You, between guilt and light,
search for your fleeting shadow,
but it has run away -
a decomposed photograph.
I try to write,
but the ink flows slowly,
like guilt confessed
at the final sunset.
Perhaps writing itself is a fire
that no longer asks for flame,
only ash.
No one told us
that love does not die,
it merely changes its residence:
it becomes object,
becomes rain,
becomes the way a man covers his face
so his pain won’t be seen when he cries.
We were saints orphaned of churches,
criminals without a victim,
until the silence born
from an untouched love
began to breathe.
And still,
sometimes,
at the absolute midnight,
when the city gives up its memory,
I feel your heart shattering in me again.
Now… silence.
Even the wind has no more words to scatter,
the smoke has vanished,
and the ash lays upon every stone
a completed prayer.
Only now I understand:
nothing breaks without prophecy.
The heart rends - first sound,
then light,
then the silence that swallows all.
I walked barefoot
through what we left of ourselves,
and every shard,
every broken smile,
asked me: “Do you still love?”
I said “yes,”
but my voice
was like a bell turned tear.
I no longer seek you in the world,
I carry you as a healed wound
that has learned on its own not to hurt.
This is forgiveness:
not forgetting,
but the stillness after the abyss.
And behold,
among the ruins of this fire,
a ray slips, touches the flayed wall,
and revives it.
Perhaps love never dies
it only changes the form
in which it burns us.
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