Made Solo

I’ve never felt like love was something I was meant to hold, like a cup too full for hands too small, always spilling, always slipping through fingers meant for something else. Maybe it is my heart that is too heavy, too full of things that don’t belong to me. Or maybe I’m just not enough, not built the way others are, not soft enough, not warm enough to be held onto. I’ve watched others find it, in the softness of a touch, in the warmth of a gaze that says I see you, the way they cradle it, like they know it belongs to them, like it was made for them. But for me, it's always out of reach, no matter how many times I trace the letters with my fingertips, no matter how hard I try to make the words feel like home. I think I was always meant to admire from afar, to witness the way it blooms in others but never feel its roots in my own chest. Maybe I’m not meant to feel what they feel, not meant to be seen like that, not meant to be anyone’s safe place. And the more I think about it, the more I realize that perhaps this is just how it is for me. So I sit with this truth, let it sink into my bones, because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how to want something that seems impossible, how to reach for something that always pulls away. So I think I’ll stop trying, because love doesn’t seem to be something that’s mine to hold.