It does not always obey.
The love of a parent for a child does not require presence to remain real. It does not vanish when the child leaves the room, crosses an ocean, or disappears into silence. It persists—stubbornly, continuously—against a world that so often requires interaction to sustain reality.
And grief.
Grief, love’s echo, breathes with the heart’s rhythm.
Until time decrees silence,
And the ache of memory gentles to a sigh.
It does not dissipate.
It lingers—stubbornly, precisely.
The heart goes on interacting with an absence so precise it acquires weight and shape. Grief becomes a kind of measurement that refuses to forget what it measured.
All the while, we believed love must be solid to be true. That it must hold, remain, endure.
Reality offers a faint, unfinished outline. We press, hoping to make it stay.
But love does not live there.
It becomes real only when something answers it.
A leap. A collision.
A moment—brief and undeniable—of being here.
And then—
the leap again.