# Impossible Love I don't know how to love you the way the moon loves the night— that distant, perpetual ache. You are always leaving, even when you're here, your hands full of reasons I cannot hold. I've learned the grammar of your silences, the syntax of your turning away. Still, I conjugate your name like a prayer that breaks at the threshold. Some loves are written in water. Ours is written in smoke— beautiful, yes, but already dissolving before the sentence ends. You ask why I stay. Because impossible is the only language my heart knows how to speak. Because you are the question for which there is no answer, and I would rather live in the asking than in any certainty without you. The world calls it madness. I call it devotion— this love that cannot land, cannot rest, cannot be held except in the space between what is and what can never be.

There are loves,
loves that are true, loves that steal sleep,
exhausting and masochistic loves, loves that flicker and fade,
loves that are not love at all.

There are loves unreturned, loves of terrible beauty,
loves that wear you hollow and devour you,
loves that poison and loves that are lies we tell ourselves.

But there is also this love of ours,
where reason and conscience offer no resistance,
yet our hearts refuse, fighting to let it go.

We know we will wound each other,
that no matter how fiercely we wish to be close
each attempt will leave us shattered.

Loving you is like loving a star—
however much I love you,
however much I long to stand beside you, I cannot reach.

I can only admire your radiance and your glow.
I can only go on loving you
through these stolen glances,
these quiet flirtations that burn through my skin.

Every night I will find you in my dreams
and keep you always in my heart
and remember you in every tear shed—
my most beautiful star,
my most beautiful impossible love.