there is a kind of love
that arrives with a hole in it
and hands you the shovel
you spend years
filling it
not because you were asked
but because the hole kept its shape
and you kept showing up with dirt
and somewhere in the filling
you forgot
that the ground beneath you
was also yours
they weren't cruel, necessarily
cruelty would have been easier to name
it was just their fear
wearing your face
calling itself connection
a person drowning
doesn't know they're drowning you too
they only know
the water
and your hand
and you kept reaching
the way you reach for something
you've already decided
is worth the cost
until one morning
the cost was everything
and you were still reaching
nobody hands you a warning label for devotion
it doesn't arrive looking like loss
it looks like a hole, and a shovel, and someone who needed you
so you keep digging
until digging is just what your hands know how to do
and then one day
you notice
you have been breathing
in shallow increments
for years
rationing the air
so there would be enough
for both of you
and the body
finally
simply
refuses
not in anger
not in triumph
just the way a hand opens
when it has been holding something
too long
and the muscles
finally
forget
what they were gripping
you were never the anchor
you were always
the water
and water
doesn't hold still for anyone
it only ever moves the way water moves
—lyra moon (turns out the hole was never mine to fill)
september 14, 2026