u/Burning_Ashesh

Someone asked me- If love were a poem in three words what would you say?

I replied- I’d say her name three times.

I would lower my head to the dust at your feet,
To mend what was broken and make us complete.
I would silence the battles my pride used to keep,
And trade all my armor for one moment’s peace.

My ego’s a kingdom I carried alone,
A heavy old crown carved in iron and stone;
Yet I’d cast it aside just to stand by your side,
For love is worth more than the walls built by pride.

But hear me, my darling—there’s one thing I ask:
When I kneel before you, let love be your mask.
Do not let my sorrow become your delight,
Or my desperate surrender your throne and your height.

For if, while I’m bending, you rise up above,
And measure your power by my need for your love,
Then the bridge I am building will shatter apart,
Crushed under the weight of a merciless heart.

So look at me gently when I lay pride down,
Do not turn my devotion into your crown.
For surrender is sacred when kindness is true— I’ll conquer my pride, just to lose it to you.

The room is bright, the music loud,
I drift unseen inside the crowd.
Glass meets glass, the stories spill,
Old rhythms moving, warm and still.
Then mid-laugh, the colors break—
Something in me starts to ache.

It’s easier when I’m alone,
To feel your absence like a stone.
In quiet rooms your shadow stays,
Clearer than in crowded days.
But worst is here, among the light,
With friendly faces, warm and bright,
Who only prove, in every word,
How empty everything has turned.

The laughter builds into a wall,
Behind it, I can hear you call.
Not in the silence, soft and near—
But where I’m least supposed to hear.
I’m not alone, that’s what they say,
Yet you feel further every day.

The moon is a mirror, a silver-tongued cheat,

It follows the masses down every street.

A hollow devotion, a cold, drifting light,

Belonging to no one, yet haunting the night.

It watches the lonely, it walks with the crowd,

Wrapped in the vanity of a white shroud.

And the flowers are secrets the earth tries to keep,

Tender and trembling, waking from sleep.

But the world is a fever, a callous, sharp hand,

That scratches the soft till it turns back to sand.

They bruise what is fragile, they tear what is shy,

Leaving the petals to wither and die.

I’m stripping the metaphors back to the bone,

To a singular pulse that I carry alone.

Why seek a symbol in the stars or the earth, When no word is heavy enough for your worth?

Your existence is sovereign, vivid and sheer— The poets are quiet when you are standing here.

The moon and the blossom are shadows that flee, But you are the standard of what beauty should be.

You aren’t the "rose" or the "glow of the blue"— You’re the living example that metaphors need to be true.

So I’ll call you You. Just a soul. Just a flame.

Beyond the reach of the hurt and the shame.

You’re the ache in the silence, the steady, the true—

More beautiful than anything the world ever knew.

I wasn’t blind… I just believed you wouldn’t give me a reason to see. The real loss isn’t that you lied… it’s that I trusted you enough to make it work. so when the truth broke, it wasn’t your lie that hurt the most,

it was realizing how safely I let you in.