What is love, they whisper soft a song, a kiss, a flame aloft? But I have only learned to pour, not drink, not hold, not ask for more. They say it blooms within the chest, a warmth, a calm, a place to rest. But all I know is how to bleed into another’s hollow need. I trace the shape, I draw the line of hearts that never merge with mine. I gift the stars, then walk away they never ask if I can stay. I’ve cradled hearts with shaking hands, like sand that slips through silk and strands. They smile, they weep, they mend, they go and leave me with a quiet "no." I do not know what love should be when turned around and aimed at me. It feels like fire I cannot touch, too bright, too wild, far too much. So when they reach, I freeze inside a frightened child who’s learned to hide. Not out of spite, nor lack of grace, but from the echo of empty space. For love to me is just a gift a thing I send, not one I lift. A letter sealed, a wind-blown dove but never home, and never "love."