Love,
I have walked through the ruins of myself
just to reach the place
where your shadow begins.
I have carried the smoke of old sorrows
in the folds of my coat,
and yet, before you,
the smoke lifts—
as though even grief
bows its head
when a gentler truth arrives.
If I could touch your hand,
I would do so the way dawn touches windows:
quietly,
as though afraid
to break the dream you’re still inside.
My heart, unruly as a wounded bird,
beats its golden wings
against the cage of ribs,
whispering your name
the way a prayer whispers God’s.
And love—
if the world denies us,
if the night drags its tired curtain
across our small bright hour,
still I would walk toward you
through barbershops of ghosts,
past houses that have forgotten light,
past the bones that beg for release—
I would walk
until the soles of my shoes
remember the shape
of your footsteps.
For you are the single geranium
in the cracked window of my days,
red as a vow spoken once
and never betrayed.
You are the room I have not entered,
but already know by scent alone.
If fate is cruel,
let it be cruel.
If time is short,
let it be short.
If love is a knife,
then let it cut—
for even bleeding,
I would choose you.
And should the city burn,
should the night rip itself apart,
I will hold the torch and the tear
and walk toward you still.
For love—
my love—
when I reach the fire,
I will step into it willingly,
and the fire will be beautiful
because you are standing there.
:: 12.03.2025 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 
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