Love in the Hands of a Lion
Are you strong enough to hold love —
to bear its weight without breaking?
Once, I thought love was for the fragile,
for the ones we pitied in silence.
A folly, a trick of the light,
a tide that sweeps fools from the shore.
I would not be one of them.
My mind, a fortress, walled high with reason,
prioritizing safety over surrender.
For years — perhaps lifetimes —
I silenced the whispers of my own heart.
What should love be? I asked,
never daring to wonder,
What does love long to be for me?
“I will be fine.”
“I don’t need anyone.”
“I refuse to feel like I do.”
Or was it simply the absence of reciprocity?
The proof that love means what it says,
and says what it means.
Why was love always vanishing,
slipping through my fingers like a dream upon waking?
I mistook my search for love as love itself.
Their lips, their hands, their hurried exits —
each a paintbrush against the canvas of my heart,
leaving me with a Basquiat of almosts,
a masterpiece of what could be.
Was I not worth the clarity?
The staying?
The sacred unraveling of love in its fullest form?
“Love is foolish.”
“Everyone is so naive.”
“Just wait — when he betrays her, it will be another tragedy, another warning.”
I could solve impossibilities,
bend the world in my mind,
yet love remained my greatest riddle.
But then, on February 21st,
I met a poet, a lion, a rose —
all in one moment.
And my heart, long silent,
began to sing.
To be continued…
Thank you for reading my blog!
