Lovers move through the world like wistful ghosts, bending toward one another with a devotion so effortless it makes my chest wince at the beauty humans take for granted. I hover above their tenderness, watching hands lace and bodies lean as if belonging were a language I was never taught. I searched the earth for that kind of connection; caves to caves, dust to dust, my palms closing around nothing but aloneness. Sometimes I ache to soothe the human part of me, to wrap her in arms she’s never known and whisper that she, too, was meant to be chosen. But she walks a path of solitude, strangers passing through her heart as though it were a brick door instead of a living organ desperate for rest and reprieve. Still, we float between worlds, seeing beneath smiles and beyond tears, carrying a fragility that only the worthy could ever hope to hold. And perhaps that is why our love stories recycle like magnets in a timeless sea; broken rafts drifting toward the next mystery brave enough to discover us.
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