A thank you from the hole in my chest

I look back now and I wonder if anyone will ever love me that way again. That kind of die for you, no looking back, wholehearted surrender love. That kind of hold me Saturday night, meet me Sunday morning love. Wildfire love. Set the sky ablaze love. I’d stop at nothing to keep you safe kind of love. Doesn’t matter if it kills me kind of love, I’ll still gaze at you in the passenger seat even if it means taking my eyes off the road.

Maybe I never will again. But I was one of the lucky ones.
I had that. For the shortest of all imaginable lifetimes, I had that.


A small comfort:
that I am not the inventor of heartbreak.
The tiniest fact to ease the tugging in my chest tonight.

I think God was the first.
Maybe He felt it when He created us
only to realize how broken we are.
How we make and unmake—
how we twist our words into shapes that cut,
our bodies into statues.
Did He cry—
the same way I cry, tonight?
Is it the reason He invented snow?
So that on nights like these,
when the sky seems to collapse
in milky white crystals that melt
at the touch of skin—
we would know He was there?

Maybe I don’t know.
But I felt it.
I felt the snow and I knew.