Surviving Heartbreak

This Isn't A Love Poem

Make no mistake, this is not a love poem.

I have no lover to write about,
no hand to trace back to,
no voice replaying softly in my head
after midnight.

No one waits for me
in the spaces between my thoughts.

No—
this is not a love poem.

It is merely an observation.

A collection of borrowed moments
I have stolen
from strangers.

The way a man moves closer
to his wife in a crowded café,
not because there is no room,
but because there is.

The way she absentmindedly
brushes a crumb from his sweater,
the way he smiles
as though he has been loved
like that for years
and still cannot quite believe it.

The quiet language of knees touching
beneath restaurant tables.

The folded tenderness
of someone carrying
another person's grocery bags
without being asked.

The way laughter changes
when it is meant
for only one person.

Make no mistake—
I am only watching.

Collecting these moments
like pressed flowers
between the pages
of a life I have not yet lived.

I see love
in train stations,
in grocery store aisles,
in the way someone waits
for another to finish tying their shoe.

I see it in glances
that linger a second too long.

In hands reaching
without looking
and still finding
exactly where they belong.

And sometimes,
I wonder
what it must feel like
to be recognized that gently.

To be known so quietly.

To have someone memorize
the shape of your silences.

To have your name
sound softer
in someone else's mouth.

But no—
this is not a love poem.

It is a witness statement.

A confession from someone
standing outside the window,
watching warmth flicker inside.

Someone learning the anatomy of love
through reflections in glass.

Someone gathering proof
that tenderness exists.

And maybe—
if I write down enough of it,
if I study
the way people lean toward each other,
the way their eyes soften,
the way their hands say
what words cannot—

maybe one day
I will recognize it
when it reaches for me.

Maybe one day
this will become a love poem.

But for now,

it is only this:

the quiet ache
of seeing something beautiful
from a distance,

and loving it
without ever having touched it.

—MistakenGenius