the city you built
he named a city of loneliness after you, but you walked its streets like a traveler, planting gardens where feelings were buried. you learned the heart is no grave, it is soil, and everything laid down there grows back, softer, wiser, yours.
you had everything, they said, yet affection came without ceremony, so you became your own ceremony. beauty stopped needing permission, your words turned to honest magic, and when you left the rest to God, you finally came home to yourself.















