Turning a Wet Page

Longing for the sun to dry what i cannot, the page remains stuck.

I want to stop writing about you.
I want to wake up, grab my pen, and not have my thoughts swelling in limerence.
I want to turn to the next page but every page in my notebook still feels wet from a storm of memories and unspoken words, from plans that never became real, from hugs that should have lasted longer, from choices that should have been made sooner.

This is a meditation on love and unlove.
A study of the fragile space between holding on and letting go.

Born from heartbreak and the delicate afterglow of limerence.
Paris as the stage for a woman suspended between tenderness and rage, between the impulse to stay and the necessity of release.

This is a love torn open, a desire that burned too brightly and left its trace in silence. The ache of longing.
The venom of fleeting anger. The quiet that settles once the fire consumes itself.

Candles as love spells. Flames lit with the hope of anchoring the one who is far away.
The room vibrating between ritual and screen light. Lace, fire, pixels, skin.

It is his birthday. She celebrates alone, offering her body as promise, her desire as prayer.
Long distance love suspended between absence and dream, uncertain but alive in the hope of crossing the threshold.

He appears but does he really.
Is he here in body and flesh or only the shape my memory allows me to see.
What is real and what is hallucinated by the heart.
A presence that may never have existed fully but that still occupies the frame.

He is here, but maybe he never was.