My love has soured,
not in a single moment, but slowly, like fruit left too long in the sun, forgotten by the very hands that once swore to cherish it.
The relationship I once called mine has withered,
its roots dry, its petals scattered by winds that carried more lies than promises.
And my heart…
my heart has grown bitter from the countless chances I poured into the palms of a man who only ever let them slip through his fingers like water.
I wonder now,
who will mend me when I am too disheartened to even lift my own hands toward the cracks inside my chest?
Who will wipe the tears I can no longer bear to acknowledge?
Who will thread the needle through the frayed edges of my heart, piecing it together, stitch by stitch trembling,
only to wait through the long and lonely seasons for it to heal?
Love has abandoned me again,
after I dared to believe, after I dared to offer chances wrapped in trust, after I dared to think "this time will be different."
But it wasn't.
It never was.
Now, all that remains is the ache,
the hollow echo of what is
and the haunting shadow of what should have been.
And between them, I am caught,
dangling in a place where hope feels like betrayal,
and every memory tastes like ash.