Devotion Without Voice

I’m not the type of person who writes— not until I met you. I became a creator, this pen in my hand, ink flowing like blood— a fragment of my soul consuming itself. each time we share the same roof, I rehearse 'hello' like a sacred script. I replay our words, each moment, each angle— again and again, like a heart forgets how to rest. If my pen had alive for once, I know what it'll ask— "what is she really, A Goddess or something more?" Your presence is enough to fill the hollow in my soul. I love you— exactly as you are, I love the whole you. I love the deepest part of your soul. My love for you is beyond flesh, beyond linguistics, vocabulary and logic. So deep— to the point my mind cannot translate what my heart trying to confess. So I stay silent— staring, worshipping from a distance. If a thousand love you— I am one of them. If a hundred love you— I am still one of them. If only one loves you— I am that person. And if no one loves you— then I am already dead. A mind that reasons. A soul that yearns. Trapped in one flesh— and that’s my tragedy.