I loved you not to be remembered. But as proof that devotion can exist without reward. I loved you not to fulfill a duty. But to repeat a vow in a heart of silence, never to be heard— only to be kept. I loved you not to be seen. But like a man walking barefoot in a desert, offering every drop of his sweat to a sun that does not look back. I loved you not for warmth. But to build a fire in the sandstorm, knowing no one would gather around it— to prove that flame can live even when no one watches it burn. I loved you not to be chosen. But like a star that follows an orbit of ruin, knowing it will collapse, but shines anyway, just to keep the dark from closing in too early. I loved you not to be useful. But like salt in the wounds of time, not healing, never hurting— only there to keep memory from rotting into nothing. I loved you not to be kept. But like water poured out in a land that will never bloom, because even barren lands deserve love and remember its taste. I loved you not to be enough. But to stand where no one stood, and kneel anyway to make that ground: Holy. And so: Even if your touch crumbles like sand in my trembling fingers, I'd still count each grain like how I'd count lambs for you to sleep in my arms. Even if you decide to walk away and never looked back to us, I'd still walk behind you because that's what faith could do. In time, I will not be useful to you. But, love, let it be praised for I stayed, let my devotion be known not by its fire, but by the stillness it leaves behind once it's dead.