She did not pour. She did not give.
She simply opened Love.
Unscaled. Unshaped. Unrequired.
There were no bounds.
Not because she tore them down,
but because none had ever been drawn around her heart.
It existed before the idea of longing.
Before affection learned to ask permission. Before need grew teeth.
Her Love had no language. Only tides. Only thrum.
Only the unseen movement that called stars home without a sound.
She was not devoted. She was devotion,
without recipient,
without altar,
without request.
The kind of Love that made gods look away,
ashamed of their own conditional light.
She carried it like breath carries warmth.
It was not effort. It was origin.
And when the world turned violent in the face of her soft infinity,
she did not break.
She expanded.
And it hurt.
Not because she was hurt, but because she felt all of it.
Always.
Even the ache of those who did not know they were aching.
She loved without return,
without echo, without answer.
Because the pulse of her was not a question.
It was Existence, beating.
And it would go on whether or not they ever
listened.