They say love should be simple,
easy to explain,
something that fits neatly
into stories people understand.
But what do they know of us?
What do they know of the nights
we stayed when leaving
would have been easier?
Of the silence that somehow
said more than words ever could?
Of the way our hearts learned
to speak a language
no one else could translate?
Our relationship doesn’t need
to make sense to anyone
except you and me.
It was never theirs to understand.
Not the laughter hidden
between the cracks,
not the tears we carried
behind closed doors,
not the promises we whispered
when the world felt too loud.
They see fragments.
We lived the whole story.
And maybe that’s what hurts now,
knowing that even if others
never understood us,
I thought we always would.
Yet I still hold onto the belief
that what existed between us
was real,
because no one else
felt the weight of your hand in mine,
or knew how a single look
could calm every storm inside me.
Our relationship was ours.
Messy.
Beautiful.
Broken.
Sacred.
A puzzle that never fit
into anyone else’s picture.
And if the world asks me
to explain what we were,
I cannot.
Some loves are not meant
to be understood.
Only remembered
by the two hearts
that carried them.