Love never dies.
But there are nights when it forgets your name,
when it turns its back and closes every door you once believed would stay ajar.
You stand outside, breath fogging the silence,
and the world feels like a hallway of locked rooms.

Sometimes your heart spills—
not like poetry, not like wine—
but like a hard night on an empty pavement.
Cold.
Unnoticed.
And no one puts their jacket over you.
No one walks you home.

You wander, barefoot and half-crazed,
the moon your only witness,
the stars too far to care.
You ask the wind if there was ever a door that let you in at all,
or if love was just a trick of light—
a warm shadow cast by someone else’s fire.

But even in that ache,
even in the madness of longing,
there is a whisper:
Perhaps…

Perhaps love is not the door,
but the wandering.
Not the jacket,
but the skin you grow thicker each time you’re left behind.
Not the home,
but the hope that one day,
someone will walk beside you—
not to shelter you,
but to see you.

And that, too,
is love!

©️Beatriz Esmer