Some loves do not fade—they carve themselves into the ribs, leaving knives that ache with every breath, proof that the heart once burned beyond reason."
Alessandra Graziella Di'Stefano
The Ache That Refuses Silence
There are loves that end politely.
They fade like old photographs, soft around the edges,
a memory you can set on a shelf without bleeding.
And then there is this.
The kind that keeps its knives polished.
The kind that moves through your body like a storm with no map,
slicing breath into fragments,
making your chest a battlefield between longing and survival.
Every thought of him is not just memory—it is incision.
A private surgery you never consented to.
You walk into a grocery store, see his favorite fruit,
and suddenly your ribs are splintered.
You hear a song in a café,
and it tears through you as though time has no respect for healing.
The past becomes a weapon. The present a crime scene.
You cry, and it is never just crying.
It is tidal, oceanic, feral.
Salt water spilling from eyes that are exhausted,
yet never empty.
Each tear holds his name, each drop carries
a geography of what was once yours.
It feels endless,
a punishment for still loving someone who is now a ghost that refuses to die.
And the moon
that merciless witness
hangs above like a pale executioner.
You beg it nightly, voice raw, knees bruised against the silence:
release me, let me breathe without knives,
let me wake without this anchor in my chest.
But the moon does not barter.
It glows. It watches. It keeps its cruel distance.
Its light is both comfort and cruelty
silver balm on the wound,
yet a reminder that even the sky cannot free you.
This love is not gentle.
It is possession, hunger, ache.
It makes each inhale feel dangerous,
each exhale a confession you never agreed to make.
You keep telling yourself time will dull the blade,
yet here you are,
still carrying steel inside your lungs,
still naming him in your sleep.
If you have known this,
you know it is not weakness.
It is testament.
It is proof that you loved with a depth the world cannot domesticate.
That you gave your heart not as ornament,
but as altar.
And when an altar is abandoned, it does not vanish
it smolders.
It burns.
It carves prayers into your marrow that no priest, no god, not even the moon can erase.
This ache, these knives, these oceans of grief
they are the cost of a love that was never casual.
And though it breaks you,
though it leaves you breathless, drowning, torn
it also marks you.
You are one who has loved beyond reason,
beyond safety,
beyond the world’s small definitions.
And yes, it hurts.
But it means you are alive in a way many will never dare to be.
© 2025 Alessandra Graziella Di’Stefano. All rights reserved. All works are registered and protected under U.S. Copyright Law. Unauthorized use, reproduction, or distribution is strictly prohibited and subject to legal action. Stealing or claiming this work as your own may result in fines, damages, and removal from any platform.
