Fragments of Cassandra

If the world were handed back to me-

unwritten,
its mornings still dark,
its stars still becoming-

I would walk every impossible road
knowing exactly
where it ends.

At you.

Even if I were warned
that loving you
would teach my ribs
the sensation of collapse,

I would still identify your eyes
for somewhere I was meant
to spend my life.

Love has never asked 
reason to explain itself.

It grows the way ivy does—

patient enough
to make a cathedral
out of abandoned stone.

My heart has become
that forgotten building.

No matter how often
I clean the walls
of your name,
It still returns. 

People speak
as though forgetting
is a discipline.

As though the sea
could simply decide
not to answer the moon.

But longing
is older than choice.

It is gravity.
It is migration.
It is every river;
remembering
how to find the ocean
before it has ever seen it.

Perhaps,
in your story,

I have become
nothing more
than a photograph
left inside a closed drawer.

But in mine,

you remain
the page
every chapter
keeps trying
to return to.

If love has taught me anything,

it is this:

Some souls
do not leave fingerprints.

They leave roots.

And even after
the tree is cut down,
the earth remembers
what once grew there.

So if life asked me again—

knowing
the silence,
the absence,

the unbearable ache
of reaching
for someone
who is no longer reaching back—

I would still choose
the wound
that came from loving you

over the untouched life
where I never knew you at all.

Because some people
are not simply loved.

They become
the direction
your heart
continues walking,

long after
the journey
has ended.



Be’ahava,
The Mourning Bird