Only Us

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.