Still, love

It was an instinct—falling to pieces, forgetting faces, remembering places, holding to silence. And that’s how life is.

A way of surviving—going into hiding, hanging by a thread, sinking into bed, withstanding violence. And that’s how love is.

Nothing forgotten, still repeating the pattern, wiping my eyes, believing the lies, mistaking them for forever. And that’s how a heart breaks.

It was an instinct, a way of surviving. Love ends in tragedy. Still, I forget. So many heartbreaks, so few regrets.

And that’s how living is. And that’s how loving is. And still, love—worth everything.