Why They Love
Why They Love
A hollow slept in me with the face of a window flung open to nothing at all,
I waited for a voice the way forgotten sand waits for the rain of a distant sea,
you came carrying the exact tone my soul had been dreaming inside its silences,
like a key made of air slipping into a lock of light no one had ever unfastened.
You saw me past the layers, past the fear, past the silence wrapped around my ribs,
you sank long glances under the skin of my days painted thin like cheap cardboard,
you introduced me to myself the way you'd meet a beautiful stranger in a mirror,
and ordinary life peeled off me slowly like an old poster from a forgotten wall.
My sky-starved soul received a pair of wings stitched together from your whispers,
love is not an equation, it's an unknown *x* we carry around through entire lifetimes,
you can't hunt it down — it shows up only when you've stopped looking for anything,
you collide by accident with a soul that somehow smells like a home you lost once.
How strange the human heart is — it ignores hundreds, then clings to one alone,
to the one who smiled differently, who looked at you from an angle nobody walked,
to the one who spoke with the softness of slow rain on a roof of old worn dreams,
and it doesn't pick the ones who'd die for us — it picks the one who makes us alive.
Love is imagination too, building houses in the mind from bricks of thinning dream,
we live whole lives with that person in silence, conversations that never happened,
we ache for futures left untouched, we miss mornings that haven't yet been born,
we carry entire cities in our heads where they breathe and we are no longer alone.
And maybe that's why it hurts so deep — they enter us before reality lets them in,
they slip past the ribs and settle into the quiet rooms beneath the brow of thought,
losing them isn't a parting — it's a territory dying slowly somewhere inside you,
a piece of yourself that only existed because they once woke it from a long sleep.
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