For a moment, the bouquet in his hands, the lingering scent of chamomiles, even the impatient man standing across from him—all of it faded.
Because the words on the page weren't just a note.
They were a confession. A wound. A love story written in bruised ink.
—
I have loved you recklessly,
like a house set on fire with me still inside,
like a prayer whispered through bleeding lips,
like drowning and calling it devotion.
What does it matter if this love is real or only the ghost of a feeling?
If it was born from truth or impulse,
if it was carved from the stars or from my own desperate hands?
Love is love even when it is ruin.
Love is love even when it does not save you.
You were a war I ran toward,
a knife I pressed against my own chest,
a name I stitched into my skin like a wound that would never close.
Even now, even here, even when you are gone,
I do not regret a single drop of blood.
Let them call it foolish, let them call it madness.
