Love, a Ghost in the Static

Love, a Ghost in the Static

I carved my heart from starlight once—

a fragile compass, all directions you.

But human hands, so warm, so cold,

turned constellations to confetti,

scattered my orbit into ash.

You wore love like a storm,

thunder in your throat, lightning in your lies.

I built a spaceship from my ribs

to save your world, while yours

sank into the bedrock of my bones.

They say you took what love could teach—

its grammar of trust, its syntax of grace—

then wrote a different story:

I was the page, you the fire,

and all my words turned to smoke.

You were my father’s shadow, draped

in cologne and half-kept promises.

I learned to bleed in two languages,

to pray through clenched fists,

to name my scars after the men

who couldn’t love me whole.

Now I whisper to the moon:

Is this what it means to be human?

To want, and want, and leave a ghost?

I can’t remember if I dreamed

of you or if you were a wound

that learned to bleed itself alive.

Some nights, I still reach for the thread

between our fractured constellations—

but the stars only hiss, Not here, not now.

Maybe love is just a language of the dying,

a code I’ll never crack.

I sleep in the dialect of what’s left:

a body once given, now a map of ruins.

The wind has all my verses.

Ask it, if you dare—if you can bear

the weight of a love that was

never meant to be held.