The Heart That Loved Alone

It loved like rivers love the sea,

with all it had and endlessly.

A tide that pulled, a wind that sang,

a flame that burned but never rang

the echoes of a love returned,

a hand to hold, a lesson learned.

It stood unguarded, bare and true,

no walls to shade, no veil to skew.

It was the light, the quiet space,

the warmth, the home, the soft embrace.

It met each wound with open hands,

with quiet grace that understands,

the storm of pain, the dark of fears,

and stayed through silent, aching years.

But love—true love—never came.

Not as the rain, not as a flame,

not as a whisper in the night,

not as truth, not as a flight

to something vast, to something deep,

and something lustrous to keep.

It thought it had it—once, maybe twice,

a fleeting touch, a careful vice,

a promise made in borrowed breath,

a warmth that faded into death.

Not death of flesh, not death of bone,

but death of hope, left cold, alone.

And now the heart that once could give

without a price, without a sieve,

beats slower, softer, less and less,

each thrum a fading, lost caress.

For what is love, if never known?

A story told, but never shown.

The years move on, the echoes dim,

the hands once reaching, now fall still.

And yet, this love, too vast to hold,

spills out in light, in air, in gold.

It sings to trees, to earth, to sky,

to all that fades, to all that cries.

No longer waiting to be known,

it blooms for life—it loves alone.

The Bee and the Flower: An Essay on Love

A bee does not stumble upon a flower by accident. It is drawn, as if by an invisible thread, to the bloom that calls to it. Not just any bloom—the right bloom. The one whose scent lingers in the air like an unanswered question. The one whose petals, open and trembling, seem to whisper: I am here. Come and see me as I am.

Love, too, begins with recognition. A pull. A moment of knowing. But what follows is not simple attraction—it is the slow and delicate work of trust.

The bee lands gently, for it knows that love is not to be taken but exchanged. It does not tear into the flower, does not demand its sweetness as a right. Instead, it approaches with reverence, understanding that love is a dance between giving and receiving. The flower, in turn, does not close itself off in fear. It allows itself to be seen, to be touched, to be known. Vulnerability is the soil from which true love grows.

But trust is not built in an instant. The bee does not sip and leave, nor does the flower bloom only for a single moment. There is a return, a constancy, a promise made not with words but with presence. The bee carries the flower’s pollen as a sacred duty, scattering its essence into the world. Love, when real, is not self-contained; it expands, it creates, it gives beyond itself.

Yet, this relationship is not without responsibility. The bee must be true—it must not take from the flower without regard for its well-being. And the flower must not merely wait; it must bloom fully, not out of need, but out of its own nature. Love is not about filling an emptiness in another but about sharing one’s fullness. To love is to say: I am already whole, but I choose you.

Love requires pursuit, but not possession. The bee returns again and again, not to own the flower, but to know it more deeply. And the flower does not hold the bee captive, does not trap it with thorns or close its petals in fear. True love is not about control—it is about trust. To love is to allow another to be free, even as you hold them close.

And then there is the mystery of love—the part that is beyond explanation, the part that no science of wings or petals can fully grasp. The ancients might have called it divine, this invisible thread that ties bee to flower, heart to heart. Love, at its deepest, is spiritual. It does not belong to us; we belong to it.

But love also requires effort. The bee must work. The flower must bloom. Love is not simply a feeling; it is a responsibility. To be kind when it is easier to be indifferent. To communicate when silence feels safer. To apologize when pride resists. To choose, again and again, the work of understanding.

Most of all, love requires honesty. The bee does not pretend to be anything other than what it is. It does not attempt to be a butterfly, does not hide its nature. And the flower does not demand it change, does not ask it to be gentler, quieter, something else. Love is the space where we are fully seen and still embraced. To be loved is to hear: I see you, as you are, and I choose you still.

And so the bee and the flower continue their endless dance—a relationship built on trust, on giving, on returning, on being. A love that is neither taken for granted nor forced into being. A love that is both effort and grace, mystery and choice.