Consequence

The consequence of loving well
is loss.
Those who stamp themselves on your soul
will be torn away,
and the years ahead
are fewer than those behind.

The fabric rips,
holes shaped like this one,
that one.
No thread strong enough to mend it,
edges fraying
as they tear away from here.

But we will not stop.
We knot the holy shawl tighter,
we wear our scars like proof
yes, every patch that pulls away
marks us,
but it also declares:
we dared to love.

One day our own place will rip free,
and others will clutch their blankets close,
cursing the hole we left—
and blessing it too.

So today we grip the patchwork fierce,
we send love like wildfire into the dark,
knowing the cost,
knowing the ache,
and choosing
always choosing.