MAY BE

May be,

healing is a whisper mistaken for a war cry,

a silent stitch on wounds people still glorify.

To some, moving on is crossing oceans barefoot,

to others, it is smoke leaving the lips in a single exhale.

May be,

a first mistake was never meant to wear the crown of a red flag,

yet we hang people on crosses built from one bad chapter.

Many kneel before perfection

as though love ever signed a contract promising flawless hearts. And may be,

the fading of sparks was never the death of love,

Yet distance breeds doubt,

and shadows grow louder than patience,

louder than the quiet kind of love that stays.

May be,

we sabotage calm waters because chaos feels familiar,

mistaking peace for boredom,

mistaking consistency for emptiness.

Too available becomes clingy,

too caring becomes cringe,

while cold hands are praised for being “hard to get.”

intimacy now sits on a throne too high,

asked to carry meanings it was never built to hold.

We chase what burns our fingers
speaking forever in a generation addicted to temporary things.

People rehearse marriage in moments

yet panic at the sound of commitment.

May be,

Cupid never died

perhaps we just rewrote his arrows into transactions.

Sugar-coating prostitution and calling it modern love,

breaking people, then announcing to the world

that we are the broken ones.

We hide behind excuses like children behind curtains,

crippling ourselves over questions

that only needed a yes or a no.

We move with insecurities dressed as standards,

with pain dressed as wisdom.

Yes, pain exists

but why hold onto pain

that is no longer holding onto us?

Why keep playing in the rubble of old love cities

instead of building new ones from softer bricks?

May be,

our wounded hands should stop searching for salt

and start searching for gardens.

May be,

We complicate the basic love and stumble over it’s simplicity.

And may be