The crime of Loving

I loved you — so deep it rotted inside me. Not a blossom, but a wound that would not close. To love truly, I learned, is to die quietly, To stand still while everything I wanted walks away. I let you go — not because I am noble, But because the sky above stayed mute, And God, if He watched, turned His face from mine. If you are mine, fate will bind us again — or not. It is no longer my right to hope. I release you, and with you, I release myself, Into an emptiness colder than loneliness: An existence where love means nothing but loss, And letting go is the only proof I ever cared. So let it be called experience — this ruin in my chest, This grave I dug with my own trembling hands. God may unite us. Or He may not. It changes nothing. I have loved you — and that, in this cruel world, Is my only crime, And my only truth.