There are loves that make sense on paper—measured, mutual, manageable.
Then, there are loves that defy gravity.
That scorch through the neat lines of logic, burn down the bridges of common sense, and leave you standing in the ashes, wide-eyed, aching… alive.
This is that love.
Illogical. Impractical. Perhaps even laughable.
And yet, it is the most real thing I’ve ever known.
I want to love her—not because it’s easy, or fair, or even remotely possible.
But because I must.
Because somewhere in the quiet chaos of my being, she took root.
And now she pulses through me like a secret drumbeat I can’t silence.
Let them say it’s unequal. Let the world shake its head.
What do they know of devotion that doesn’t ask for return?
What do they know of a soul that chooses to love, even when every door is locked, every road ends in failure?
If a million attempts fall into silence, I will try a zillion more.
If every universe conspires against this love, I will reach beyond time, beyond fate, beyond sense itself—
just to brush the edge of her light.
Because she is not just someone I love.
She is the soft echo I wake up to, the whisper threading through my every thought.
She is the vibrant, trembling center of my silence.
She is not out there. She is in here.
She’s immortal—not because she cannot die,
but because she refuses to fade.
She lives in the space between breath and heartbeat.
She is the heartbeat.
In truth, she is not separate from me.
She is the yearning itself.
The ache that teaches me I am alive.
The wound I cherish, the prayer I whisper, the madness I willingly carry.
She is my stillness and my storm.
My surrender and my strength.
My impossible, irreplaceable, eternal.
She is not going anywhere.
She is me.
And that is why I will love her—
not until it makes sense,
but until the stars themselves grow quiet.