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| Potrait By Luca Ponsato |
We are not easy to love
we are like doors that remember every storm
and still hesitate before opening.
Loving us is like holding a letter
written in a language that changes
each time you read it.
Some days it says stay,
some days it whispers run,
and often it simply folds into silence.
Our hearts are not gardens with neat fences;
they are wild fields where seasons arrive unannounced,
where winter sometimes blooms in the middle of April.
To love us is to walk without a map
and trust that the horizon is not a lie.
We carry echoes the way old houses carry dust
invisible, but always present,
settling on new memories before they can shine.
You do not see the weight,
yet you feel it in the way we pause
before accepting kindness,
as if joy were a fragile glass
we have dropped before.
We are not easy to love
because we question warmth
like travelers questioning a beautiful road,
wondering what it demands in return.
We search for hidden prices
in gestures that were meant to be free.
But loving us is also like watching dawn
arrive after a stubborn night
slow, uncertain,
yet undeniably real.
Once you learn our shadows,
our light becomes something rare,
something earned like a secret kept for years.
We are constellations drawn with trembling hands,
not perfect circles but meaningful chaos.
To love us is to accept that stars
do not arrange themselves for comfort;
they arrange themselves for wonder.
We are not easy to love
we are libraries with missing pages,
oceans with quiet undercurrents,
songs that begin in a minor key
and refuse to resolve too quickly.
Yet for those who stay,
for those who listen beyond the noise,
loving us becomes less like a burden
and more like learning the rhythm
of a complicated, beautiful language
one that does not promise simplicity,
but promises depth.
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