I never lost love.
I buried it.
Deep.
Under pride, under pain,
Under every lie I told myself
To keep from breaking wide open.
But the ground cracked.
The grave swelled.
And love —
the stubborn, sacred kind —
rose from the dirt,
still beating.
I won’t deny it anymore.
I won’t silence it,
shrink it,
or feed the void with lesser things.
Because only one pair of hands
can hold what’s still alive in me.
And they’ve held it before —
shaking,
but willing.
I fumbled her heart.
She fumbled mine.
Two imperfect pilgrims
tripping toward redemption.
But here’s what they never tell you:
Real love doesn’t need perfect hands.
It needs scarred ones.
Open ones.
Ones that drop everything else
to carry each other through the fire.
We’ve both sinned.
We’ve both forgiven.
We’ve both stood at the cliff’s edge
and didn’t jump.
Not because we weren’t broken,
but because we weren’t done.
There is a bond
that does not fray —
not with storms,
not with shame,
not with time or silence or space.
A bond forged in miscarriage tears,
in late-night prayers,
in whispered “I’m sorry”s
and louder “I still love you”s.
It is the weld.
Divine heat.
Holy pressure.
And what God welds —
no man can sever.
We are not just lovers.
We are legacy.
We are Lettie.
We are Hadley.
We are a line stretching toward heaven,
held together by grace
and the blood of second chances.
So I won’t run.
I won’t forget.
I’ll stand —
not begging,
but ready.
If mercy lives in you like it lives in me,
then love isn’t lost.
It’s just waiting
to be claimed again.