There were no maps to where her love ended because it didn’t. It only unraveled...
like wind loosening the sky from its own skin.
She stood where memory fell off the world,
where the cliffs grew tired of pretending to be solid and began to crumble into hush.
Her love... it didn’t fall.
It hovered.
It waited in the breath between two heartbreaks and chose to stay.
Not to be seen, but to be inevitable.
There was a kind of ache that tasted like seafoam,
that carved itself into her like the ocean carves the earth
without asking for permission,
without needing to be thanked.
Her love was not gentle.
It moved like time unpaused,
like tempests that continued
even after the sky surrendered.
And though no one waited at the bottom,
she still stood at the edge each day,
Offering her pulse to the wind as if it could carry what she could not speak.
It never came back empty.
Her own love would always return to kiss her lashes,
to remind her that she had once been a place someone longed to fall from...
not for death, but for release.
She never stepped away.
She remained there, on that precipice of everything,
a silhouette drawn not in shadow but in ache.
In devotion.
In the silent cliffs that know they were shaped by love too vast,
to stay within.