When it seems
our love has cracked,
I hold each fragment
like fragile glass,
turning it slowly
in uncertain hands,
wondering if it can
ever be whole again.

In these quiet fractures,
I find memories—
your laughter,
my whispered promises,
the sighs we exchanged
in darkness,
now caught between splinters
of what we were.

Yet in this brokenness,
something tender remains:
the faint echo
of your touch,
the lingering warmth
where we once pressed close.

Perhaps love
was never meant
to remain untouched,
but to fracture softly,
to let the light
pass through its cracks—
revealing how deeply,
how imperfectly,
we’ve loved.