She Closed Her Hands Before Love Could Rest Inside
She did not believe herself unworthy... only too vast for something so soft to stay.
It wasn’t shame, nor doubt,
but an ache deeper than language that told her :
"you must not be held, or He will see the ruins you forgot to hide."
She turned away not because she couldn’t love,
but because she loved too deeply to be near her was to feel every ache
she had learned to carry alone..
And so, when it came...
the pure, slow miracle of being chosen... she flinched.
She blinked it away like a sunbeam she wasn’t ready to feel,
and the warmth left without protest.
A drop fell. Not from her eyes,
but from some hidden hollow beneath her heart,
.
.
Where regret had already begun to bloom like night-blooming sorrow.
That single drop rippled through every life she never got to live with Him.
The thousand heartbreaks did not come over years... they came all at once,
in a single moment where she realized
she had already lost something she never let herself fully hold.
The memory is hazy, but the ache remains :
not of loss, but of her own retreat, her own undoing,
her own breath held too long.
And in that stillness she whispered not forgiveness
but recognition :
"It was me who placed the miracle on the altar of distance.
And it was me who bowed to absence before love could finish its sentence."