Longing is a quiet, relentless ache—a wound that never heals, only deepens with each passing day. She is the source of my sorrow, and yet she is also the only balm. My heart is a fractured thing, its pieces scattered across every memory we share. Every smile she gives me feels like a knife twisted with precision—sharp, intentional, and devastating.
She is the sun I dare not touch, too bright, too beautiful, and far beyond my reach. And yet I orbit her, helpless against the pull of her gravity. Her laughter is the sound of my undoing, a symphony of joy that leaves me hollow. I drink in her presence like a parched traveler at a poisoned well—I know it will hurt me, but I cannot stop. I would rather suffer the pain than live without her.
There are moments that haunt me, fragile and fleeting. Her hand brushing against mine, the accidental touch that set my skin ablaze. The way her eyes softened when she looked at me, as if she saw something worth knowing. But I am a fool to believe in such moments. They are illusions, cruel tricks played by a desperate heart.
I dream of her constantly. In those dreams, we are free from the chains of reality. She takes my hand without hesitation, and the world becomes a place of endless possibility. But dreams are merciless. They end too soon, leaving me stranded in a waking world where she is just out of reach. The ache of waking from those dreams is unbearable—a fresh wound torn open each morning.
Sometimes I imagine physically ripping my heart from my chest, hoping that if I removed it, I could finally be free. It feels like a foreign object lodged beneath my ribs, pulsing with agony and unspoken words. I want to tear it out and hold it in my hands, show her the wreckage she has unknowingly caused. Maybe then she would understand—or maybe the emptiness left behind would finally grant me peace.
I am drowning in her absence, even when she is near. Her presence is a reminder of everything I cannot have. Every word she speaks is a dagger, sweet and sharp. Every laugh is a noose tightening around my throat. I want to tell her—to scream my love into the void—but fear holds me captive. I am terrified of what her answer might be. Rejection would shatter me, but indifference would be worse.
She is my ruin. And yet I cannot let go. My love for her is a sickness, a fever I cannot break. It burns through me, consuming everything in its path. I have tried to bury it, to smother it beneath layers of reason and restraint. But love is a relentless thing. It digs itself out from even the deepest graves.
There are days when hope flares, cruel and fleeting. A touch that lingers, a look that seems to say more than words ever could. But hope is a double-edged blade. It lifts me up only to cast me down harder than before. And still, I cling to it, because it is the only thing keeping me from drowning completely.
I am a prisoner of my own heart. Bound by chains I forged myself, each link a memory of her. I cannot escape, and I’m not sure I want to. Because even in my suffering, there is something beautiful. The pain is proof that I loved—that I loved her with everything I had.
But unspoken love is a cruel thing. It festers, rotting from the inside out. And so I remain, burning quietly, drowning in my longing. She will never see me the way I see her. She will never know the depth of my ache. And yet, I cannot stop loving her. My heart refuses to forget.
Some loves are meant to be shouted from the rooftops. Others are meant to be buried, deep and silent, beneath the weight of the world. Mine is the latter—a love that will never be spoken, only endured. And in that endurance, I find both my torment and my solace. Because as much as it hurts, loving her is the only thing I know how to do.
~Lulu