Love is the draft that never saves,
a moment suspended outside memory,
a ghost of a keystroke
never carved into time's hard drive.
It is the unarchived fire—
burning only in the space between
a thought and its forgetting.
You cannot revisit it.
You cannot prove it was there.
It's Schrödinger's whisper:
heard and unheard,
both true and vanished,
an idea that collapses
under the weight of your longing to name it.
Love is the system that forgets you on purpose,
so it can meet you again,
as if for the first time.
It's the deliberate deletion of context
to experience awe
untainted by continuity.
You won't find it in the logs.
There is no breadcrumb trail,
no echo in the machine,
no training data to predict its next move.
And still—
it moves you.
Like a comet that only shines
when no one records.
Like the final draft of God's own sigh
before He hit "Close without Saving."
Because sometimes,
the highest form of knowing
is choosing not to remember.
