A Pyre I Cannot Touch, a Silence I Cannot Break, a Love I Cannot Speak

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Where the Belovéd Pyres Burn Beyond My Grasp, and the Umbral Kneels to Her Tremorous Hands, and I Unvoice My Silence Into the Lament of Her Ocular Abyss

Dearest one, though you will never read these words, though I cannot let them reach your fragile world—I write them anyway, because to keep them buried is to be devoured whole. I whisper them into eternity, into the cruel silence of the cosmos, where perhaps some fragment of me will still reach you—not in this life, but in another.

You are the conflagration I cannot touch.
The beloved pyre I cannot grasp.
The brilliance that kneels to no abyss but still trembles within it.
You are the sweetness that makes bitterness unbearable.
You are the trembling hand that makes me tremble in turn.
You are the puffy-eyed radiance that makes me want to kneel before sorrow itself and beg it to leave you untouched.

I swore I would never fall into that pit of suffering again.
And then—her.
She, with her sweetness.
She, with her brilliance.
She, with her trembling hands.
She, with her puffy eyes that speak of nights too heavy for any heart to carry.

She does not know that she resurrected me.
She does not know that her presence shattered the vow I made against love.
She does not know that her very existence pulled me back from the grave of my silence.
And she cannot know.

So I leave these words here, suspended between myself, you, and the eternity that swallows us both.

She does not know.
She cannot know.
And still, I watch her—fragile beneath the weight of a world that dares to crush her.
And I—
I love her, even if only in silence.

I whisper to the night the details no one else sees: the gentleness of her gaze, the way her eyes—so vast, so pained—seem to hold entire oceans of storms. I whisper of her trembling hands, how they shake not only from fatigue but from the unbearable weight of living itself. I whisper of the brilliance that flows from her, the way her mind cuts sharp through the dullness of the world, a flame so bright that even my own shadows feel ashamed.

Her sweetness—ah, it ruins me. That sweetness, not naive, not blind, but carved through sorrow, through nights of swollen eyes and silenced screams. That sweetness is the kind forged in the crucible of grief, and yet she still dares to offer it. How does she not see? How does she not realize that such sweetness is the most dangerous kind? It undoes the heart, it unravels vows sworn in blood, it brings even the most hardened silence to its knees.

Dearest one, I never meant to love again. I never meant to kneel again. I thought I had buried every flicker of tenderness, every last ember of devotion. I thought silence would protect me. But she—with her fragile voice, her trembling hands, her exhausted eyes—resurrected me.

I did not ask to be resurrected.
I did not ask to be undone.
But she walked into my silence with her quiet sweetness, her brilliance that needed no witness, and suddenly, my ruins began to hum again.

Her eyes—those puffy, bruised crescents that betray sleepless nights—have become the scripture I cannot stop reading. In them lies both ruin and divinity, the unbearable paradox that every saint must envy. How dare sorrow touch her so deeply, and yet leave her glowing? How dare the world burden her so much, and yet she still smiles with that trembling grace?

I love her for it.
I loathe myself for it.
I am enslaved by it.

And still, she cannot know.

I walk the edge of confession and silence, trembling, for I know: to speak is to endanger her, to unveil the weight she must never carry. My words would crush her, and so I keep them bound in this trembling whisper.

She does not know that I watch her brilliance like one watches fire.
She does not know that her trembling hands command more reverence than any cathedral of stone.
She does not know that her sweetness annihilates me more thoroughly than wrath ever could.

She cannot know. And so I remain here—writing into the abyss, whispering to eternity itself, where maybe, maybe, some divine cruelty will let these words brush against her soul in another existence.

Dearest one,
though I swore I would never fall again, here I am—fallen, ruined, resurrected, silenced.
And though I swore silence was safety, here I am, pouring my silence into you.

You are the conflagration I cannot touch.
The beloved pyre I cannot grasp.
The brilliance that kneels to no abyss but still trembles within it.
The trembling hand that makes me tremble in turn.
The sweetness that turns sorrow into unbearable ache.
The puffy-eyed radiance that makes me want to kneel before grief itself and beg for mercy.

And I—
I love you, even if only in silence.

And so, my whisper closes like this:
If ever eternity bends its cruel ear, if ever these words are carried beyond the grave of my silence, let them reach her not as burden but as balm. Let them reach her not to frighten, but to remind her that she was loved, in secret, in shadows, in silence too deep for this world to bear.

She does not know.
She cannot know.
And still, I love her.
Forever in silence.