Sometimes love dies at Valentine's.
Sometimes the love doesn’t die with a big bang.
Sometimes there are no heated battles waged on the battlefield of egos.
Or late night skirmishes throwing words like daggers at each other's unhealed wounds.
Sometimes there is no passion in the death for there was no passion in the life that was their love.
Instead, sometimes, love fizzles quietly, suffocating in a sea of neglect, assumptions, and silence.
In the whispers of what was and would never be that traced every smile that never quite reached the corners of her eyes.
In every unmet gaze that signaled the love that was passing through his fingers like sand.
Escaping him.
Escaping her.
Escaping them.
Sometimes, it taunts them both with what could of been had care been taken sooner.
Sometimes, love faces a sad, lonely death, and the tendrils of its grief wrap around hearts like armor leaving scars only the inflicted can tend.
Sometimes the efforts of men gone mad with regret can't untangle the cold grasp of death on the once bleeding heart of love.
Because, sometimes, at Valentine's, we must dine alone feasting only on the inaudible sound of dying love.
For sometimes, buried under the welted flowers and half-chewed chocolates is the body of love that never reached its full potential.
And for that…
We grieve.
Copyright(c)2025 Rayven Holmes
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