When Love Becomes Complicated

I’m fifty-one years old,

and

I never imagined

that love

could feel this complicated.

When I hear from him,

I can’t help

the way my heart skips a beat.

And when he speaks

of touching me,

holding me

—my body betrays me

every single time.

I have no control

over the way

it reacts,

no matter

how much I tell myself

to stay calm,

to stay detached.

I miss

how I could

feel his presence

whenever he was near.

It wasn’t just physical;

it was like

I could sense him

—his energy,

his thoughts,

there was a quiet pull

that lived somewhere

between us.

It amazes me

how easily

people take that

kind of connection

for granted.

The small things.

The shared silences.

The moments that speak louder than words.

Most people

don’t seem to realize

what they’ve

lost until it’s gone.

But me

—I’ve always known.

Maybe that’s my blessing.

Or maybe it’s my curse.

To be fully aware

of how

temporary

every moment is.

To understand

that every laugh,

every touch,

every quiet night shared

will one day

become a memory.

Something I’ll treasure.

Something I may miss.

Still,

I can’t let

that keep me

from living.

From loving.

From being open.

I have to keep moving,

even when it hurts.

Because

somewhere in all of this,

I’ve learned

that I don’t get

to control

love itself.

I only get

to control

what I do with it.

And just as others

have decided

to take

my love for granted,

I get to decide

when to stop

feeding

what no longer grows.

Maybe

that’s what

real love

looks like in the end

—knowing when to let it live,

and when to let it die.

— Reina Dee 🌿