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...
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