Letters from Xhale the magazine Words that breathe. Stories that Linger,

Oh, that symphony—
how it circles my mind,
how my cause bends under the weight
of what was said,
the touch of words that pushed me away.

Maybe it was the sound of love,
or love pretending to be sound,
but it never became the bridge
that reached my heart.
Her voice alone was enough—
the orchestra unnecessary,
the instruments never needed to play.

She showed me her most dangerous side:
a smile.
It pulled me toward a dessert-sweet intimacy
she never meant to give.
That smile tried to measure its effect on life,
casting shadows over the most dangerous feeling of all—
love.

Fighting the affliction,
addicted to ambition,
she quietly questioned her soul.
And I asked mine:
what am I to do?

Tell me the lie
so I can call it my way of staying.
Don’t patronize me—not today.
Tomorrow is my weakness.
Fill me with the open arms of that lie,
of that symphony,
of an orchestra with no tune—playing only this:
love me.

A song made of false notes and happiness,
where rhythm is missing
and truth is optional.
I love you without rhythm.
I cherish you without rhyme.

An unorchestrated love—
that is what I will be.
Forever.