My Life In Word

Where Love Goes

Love doesn’t leave all at once.
It loosens first—
a thread pulled from a seam
you didn’t know was holding everything together.
It settles into ordinary places:
the quiet side of the bed,
the mug you stop reaching for,
the space between sentences
where something used to answer back.
It lingers in the body,
a muscle that remembers
how to reach without thinking,
how to turn toward warmth
that is no longer there.
Some of it hardens—
becomes caution,
a practiced distance,
the instinct to step back
before the ground gives way again.
Some of it softens into memory,
edges blurred,
voices lowered,
like a room you once lived in
but no longer enter.
And some of it—
the part that was always yours—
does not die at all.
It waits,
unclaimed,
learning a new shape
in the quiet.

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

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