Lover’s Wound
She pressed her hands against the ache,but love is a wound that never mends.A whisper carved into the bone,a ghost that lingers in the marrow.
He left like the tide—slow at first, then all at once,pulling warmth from the shore of her skin,leaving only salt and silence.
She stitches her ribs with longing,threads her breath through empty spaces,but the echoes still hum his name,soft, relentless, unforgiving.
Love does not break,it bruises in colors unseen,fades, then flares—a quiet wound that never bleeds.