I know a group of women.

You may know them too.

You might be them.

We daydream the lonely nights away,

eulogizing a love that once was,

keeping our loneliness company with nostalgia,

chasing a memory of a shadow under which we once rested our tiresome souls

and dreaming of kisses that would replenish our emptiness.

But he is a nomad.

His shadow could never serve as shelter.

He is bitter.

His kisses leave a sting on our lips.

We long for hands to guard our hearts

but too many times he’s let us slip and fall to the ground.

And even after falling,

we mistake his feet for soil to root ourselves in.

But he is beach sand,

when the water comes,

it’ll wash us both away.

I knew a group of women.

You may have known them too.

May we never be them again.

May we never chase after a love that does not love back.

May we never dream of lips that do not kiss and tell, “I love you.” back.

May we never reach for arms that do not embrace back.

May we never look for healing at the feet that once trampled over us.

May we never return to Stockholm.