You say you have loved me since the beginning of time, but the book of Genesis makes no mention of your name, where God spoke and the world became.
So please, don’t say you’ve loved me since the dawn of time, but rather say,
“As my eyes searched that room, at your gaze, I came to a halt—almost frozen in time. I couldn’t move, almost rooted to the ground. I couldn’t speak, but my heart motioned so majestically, each heartbeat calling out your name.”
What’s real love to you?
Is it the spark you see when you look deeply into her eyes?
Or is it how sweet her voice becomes when she calls out your name?
OR
Is it when he lays you down,
Strips you of the dignity you had left,
Then runs to the boys, shamelessly boasting— ” Gents, it is finished.”
And you?
You are left alone.
Broken.
Bruised.
Tracing the dignity you thought you still had in you.
You go back home, look in the mirror, and the reflection staring back, you no longer recognise…
Wondering,
“If this is real love, why am I still empty on the inside?”
But I say—
Real love has no one
Like He who was hung upon the tree.
Love—engraved in the heavens,
Before the dawn of our age.
So tell me—
Why do you beg for a love that will crumble into dust?
Why do you settle for a love that will burn into ashes?
When with Christ’s love—
Even in death…
You come alive.
Even in death…
You. Come. Alive.
So please tell me…
Why choose a love where you’ll be left all alone
To pick up the shattered fragments of your heart?
You’ll try to piece yourself back together,
But you are not the Creator.
You turn your back on the cross…
You run toward sin…
Carrying the shattered fragments of you…
Hoping that in sin, you’ll find love enough to make you whole again.
But how?
Tell me—
How can sin that brings death
Make whole what is living?
So if you want this love, beautiful and true
Repent.
Lay it all at the altar.
And you’ll thirst no more.
My love letter to you is this—
Jesus Christ came,
He shed His blood,
He died…
But on the third day, He rose again,
offering you eternal life.
That is real love.
So don’t leave this place the same.
Repent of your sin.
Let Christ make you whole.
I write about love that lingers in the silence, about fathers who exist only in questions, and about goodbyes that never got the chance to be said. My poetry lives in the space between what was and what could have been—where broken hearts still beat, and healing begins one word at a time.