A moth circles a flame it will never touch, drawn by warmth it cannot claim, wings whispering secrets to fire, knowing they will turn to ash. A river gives itself to the ocean, never expecting the tide to return. It carves valleys into stone, unseen hands shaping history with no voice to call its own. The moon hums to the sleeping earth, pulling oceans, stirring tides, never asking for a single song in return. Fingers trace names into fogged glass, only for the warmth to erase them. A candle burns through the dark, never once looking back at the night. Love does not have to be returned, to be love.
