Heartache In real time
The candles drowned themselves in wax for you.
Did you know that?
Every night I lit another one
like a fool trying to imitate stars,
hoping somewhere your dark eyes
would flicker toward me
for even a heartbeat.
But silence became your cathedral.
And I—
I became the ghost haunting it.
I still speak your name
like a prayer dragged across broken teeth.
Gods, even now youre name tastes holy on my lips.
Do you understand what you left alive?
A man stitched together
with grave thread and old grief,
standing beneath a jacaranda tree
like a scarecrow for the dead,
begging ancient gods
to make you warm at night
while frost gathered inside his ribs.
I loved you past dignity.
Past reason.
Past the point where most men
would sharpen hatred into a weapon.
But I was never most men.
I became devotion with a pulse.
A wound that learned how to walk.
A starving dog laying flowers at the feet
of the hand that struck him.
And still—
still I would have burned the world softer for you.
I would have carried your sorrow
in my teeth like a hunted animal.
I would have let every ugly thing inside you
live inside me instead.
I would have kissed the shame from your mouth
until my lips turned black with it.
You once asked me why I stayed.
Because loving you felt like standing in the rain
while bleeding out.
Terrible.
Cold.
Sacred.
Because when you touched me,
even briefly,
the corpse inside my chest
remembered how to sing.
Now every night feels unfinished.
Like the gods interrupted something sacred
and walked away laughing.
I keep expecting your voice
to crawl through the dark again.
Soft. Sleepy. Real.
Telling me you love me
like you used to
before silence swallowed you whole.
And the cruelest part?
If you returned tonight—
through fog, through ruin, through every shattered promise—
I would still open the door.
Not because I am weak.
Because some men are born
already kneeling before the thing
destined to destroy them.