The Fear of Loving
The Fear of Loving
The idea of love scares me like a light that burns you blind,
it doesn't add a thing — it transforms everything I was and am in mind,
all of a sudden my own mood no longer fully belongs to me,
my thoughts drift into someone else like leaves caught in a frozen winter breeze.
My stability — that tower of salt built up on wet sand —
becomes a shared thing, and what sounds beautiful falls apart as planned,
for shared things can be taken back without a single warning sign,
and what was yours becomes an echo with no windows, no design.
When it leaves, it doesn't leave clean — it marks every habit that you keep,
in the way that moments stay unfinished and incomplete and deep,
in memories that burn like altars that the rain has long put out,
in empty gestures repeating a presence that no longer comes about.
It's not the loss of the other person that unsettles me the most,
but the version of myself I'd have to become after losing that ghost,
the one who has to relearn how to exist inside her own cool hollow space,
like an uprooted tree that blooms in soil with no purpose and no place.
To relearn how to breathe without that thing that felt so born and alive,
so deep inside the blood it was the rhythm of the late field's drive,
so endless in its shape — an ocean that had never known a shore or floor —
and now its silence fills my chest like a mountain that won't answer anymore.
Love is the paradox that makes you whole by splitting you in two,
it makes you complete precisely in the moment it transforms you into something new,
and my fear isn't of love itself — it's of the person left after the storm,
the one who watches shards of self shine bright beneath a moon that's lost its form.
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