# To Love To love is to pour yourself into a cup that does not belong to you, to watch your own reflection fracture across the rim. To love is to build a house on someone else's shore, knowing the tide will come— knowing, and building anyway. To love is to speak in a language you are still learning, to mispronounce the name of everything that matters. To love is to be a thief stealing warmth from another's hands, then leaving your own hands empty and burning. To love is to write a letter you will never send, to address the silence by its secret name. To love is to forget the way home, to wander in gardens that are not yours, to gather flowers that will wilt, to press them anyway between the pages of your days. To love is to be a window that has learned to weep, to let the outside pour endlessly in.