Surviving Heartbreak

When It's Time

I'd be lying if I said
I didn't want to feel love again,
the kind that roots itself in my chest,
sprouting blossoms of belonging.

It's nice, isn't it?
To love and be loved
exactly as we are—
a reflection of all we deserve.

I see young couples everywhere,
woven together like constellations,
finding home in one another's arms.
They have someone to call at midnight,
someone to lean on when the world feels heavy.
I'd say I'm envious,
but also grateful—
grateful that I got to feel that once,
to know what it's like to be held
when life felt too big.

Don't get me wrong,
I've grown fond of solitude,
of the way silence hugs me,
the way I've learned
to love the shape of my own shadow.
I've done the work,
tended the gardens of my soul,
learned to put myself first—
to love me, fiercely, completely.

But there's a quiet ache,
a soft pulse beneath the stillness,
longing for a hand to hold,
a voice that says, I'm here.

I'm not bitter, though.
The people who stayed
when I was losing myself—
they taught me that love is steadfast,
that love rebuilds even in ruins.

Still, this stillness—
refuses to leave.
I know I am whole,
but I can't deny the hope
of being whole with someone else too,
of finding a partner to walk beside me.

Maybe it's not time.
Maybe love, like the moon,
needs to wax and wane
before it's full enough to shine.
Perhaps the person meant for me
is still piecing themselves together,
just as I was not so long ago.

And so, I wait—
not empty, not alone—
but patient, wistful,
knowing love will find me
when the stars decide
it's time to bloom again.

—MistakenGenius