Writers Jam

When I loved you,
your scars were not wounds
they were constellations.
Every mark mapped a place
where you had broken
and chosen to return anyway.
You called them ugly;
I called them holy.
Kintsugi of the soul,
you shimmered where others hid.

When I loved you,
your hair would fall across your face
like dusk unbuttoning the sun.
And your eyes
they never just looked,
they listened.
There was something ancient in them,
as if they had seen
too much cruelty,
and yet still chose kindness.

When I loved you,
you stood up for softness
in a world that rewards the cruel.
You refused to laugh
when pain was turned into spectacle
and that quiet defiance
was more beautiful
than any rebellion could ever be.

And I remember your body,
not as desire,
but as geography
curves that felt like roads
leading home,
a place I could never stay,
only visit in memory.

Now we are names
the wind no longer says together.
But some nights,
when the world feels too still,
I still hear your laughter
faint, like a song that never finished.

If I say I love you now,
it isn’t a plea or a return,
it’s a prayer
for who you were,
and for who I was
when I loved you.