Perhaps I was born

with the wrong moon above me,

with an ancient ache in my blood

and a heart that remembers

things it has never known.

I think I belonged

where the gods still walked among mortals,

where Aphrodite rose from the sea

and taught the world

that beauty could be both blessing

and curse.

Where Persephone disappeared beneath the earth

and someone loved her enough

to mourn the seasons.

Where women wore silk like secrets

and lovers spoke in whispers

because some promises

were too dangerous for daylight.

Perhaps I was waiting for someone

long before I ever knew his name.

A sailor, perhaps—

salt upon his skin,

a compass at his waist,

returning from some distant shore

with my name hidden beneath his tongue.

He would find me beneath a moon

pale enough to make ghosts jealous,

and for one breath of eternity

the centuries between us

would disappear.

He would not ask where I had been.

He would simply look at me

as though he had spent a thousand nights

crossing black oceans

to find this one shore.

And I—

I would know him.

Not by his face,

but by the ache in my chest.

That strange, impossible recognition

of a soul you have never met

and somehow

have spent your whole life missing.

Perhaps that is what longing is—

not wanting what you have lost,

but remembering something

you were never allowed to keep.

Like Orpheus turning too soon.

Like Persephone tasting the pomegranate

and knowing she could never wholly belong

to either world again.

Like Aphrodite herself,

beautiful enough to be worshiped

and still condemned to know

that even the gods

cannot command a heart to stay.

And perhaps I carry

my own little pomegranate—

six red seeds of memory,

six promises I should never have made,

six reasons I keep looking toward

a horizon that has never brought you home.

The ribbon rests against my skin

like the final thread

of an old love letter.

Untied.

Waiting.

And somewhere,

in a temple forgotten beneath the sand,

perhaps a priestess still whispers

that our names were written together

long before we were born.

Perhaps the Fates laughed

when they separated us.

Perhaps they knew

I would spend this lifetime

feeling that something was missing.

Because I do.

I miss the hands

that have never touched me.

I miss the kiss

that exists only somewhere

between dream and memory.

I miss the man

I cannot name.

And sometimes,

when the night is very quiet,

I wonder if he is somewhere

beneath the same moon—

wondering why his heart

aches for a woman

he has never met.

So let the ribbon remain untied.

Let the old gods keep their silence.

Let the moon guard

what the centuries could not erase.

For some love stories

are not written in books.

They are buried in the blood—

waiting patiently

for two lost souls

to find each other again.