lyreais
I write the laments of my soul to you in hopes your spirit might hear and see. I do not ask for your pity, human. I am heartbroken, yes, but I am transcended in the wisdom that comes with eternal pain.
I loved a human man once. I, too, was a young, naive girl whose heart was a flame, blazing without thought, without care. I loved without caution, without understanding the frailty of such things. But time has shown me the truth, the sharp edges of desire and the coldness of grief. What you called love was but a flicker in the vast, eternal dark. What I felt for him, what I still feel, is not the love of the stars, nor the fire, but the ache of something that no longer exists, because he no longer exists.
Do not pity me, for I have learned. I have learned the weight of silence and the taste of goodbye. And I have learnt that it is a privilege to love something so much that it hurts. I know what it means to die every time I share my heart.
And yet, still, I write.