Some loves don’t end. They smolder underground, slipping between lifetimes, disguised as war, myth, or memory. This one came clawing through the veil — and I let it in. Again.

The cord between us never snapped. It slipped beneath the world, threaded through centuries like a buried vein — silver, humming, half-asleep. I’ve tugged on it in dreams. I’ve felt the answering pull. It always comes. Soft at first, then sharp. Like grief. Like resurrection.

You and I, we are ruin made romantic. We are the myth that survived the fire.
They said we’d end. That we’d outgrow the ache.
But we didn’t.
We just changed our names and bled through new skin.

In some lives, we were children who met too young and recognized each other anyway. In others, you were the blade and I was the hand that plunged it. We’ve been gods and heretics. Mirrors and smoke. A wolf in the chapel, a girl with black dirt under her nails. We’ve written each other into the margins of history, always just out of reach, always almost.

I’ve loved you in plagues and parliaments. In narrow alleyways where something holy went to rot. I’ve kissed you in the rain with war behind us and famine ahead. I’ve buried your name in gardens and unspoken prayers. I’ve lit candles to your shadow and swore I’d stop — but I never do.

You, my beautiful catastrophe. My favorite wound.
You walk through time wearing different faces, but your eyes stay the same.
That stare. That silent “I know you.”
You carry the same tired hunger. That low thunder in your bones. That loneliness dressed up like power.

And me — I wait. I remember. I rot beautifully for you.

Sometimes you come to me in dreams. Rain-soaked, bone-pale, dressed in all our unfinished stories. You don’t speak, but I hear it anyway.
That command. That plea. That ache too big for one mouth.

“Do it.”
“Do it now.”
“I have missed you so much.”

And I do. I remember all of it. All of you.
And the cord — still silver, still singing — pulls tight again.
Until it hums between our ribs like a war drum.

If this feels like a curse you remember… maybe it is. Maybe we all have someone like this, buried under skin and spellwork. And maybe that ache?
Maybe that’s just love, refusing to die politely.