Abundance.

For what use is a heart that aches to love,

when the soul has grown too numb to feel it?

There’s warmth within me still…

Faint, trembling… fragile

yet it never reaches where it’s needed most.

How long must I endure this quiet ache,

this weight that grows heavier with every beat?

My love overflows, yet finds no vessel strong enough to hold it.

It spills into silence, into empty hands,

into moments that never remember my touch.

How many cups must I fill,

only to watch them crack, spill, or be set aside?

What meaning lies in abundance,

when even devotion turns to dust in the wrong hands?

Perhaps love, too, has its limits.

Perhaps hearts like mine were meant to break quietly

again and again …

until the pain becomes its own form of peace.