Love does not save me, but it holds me (Marcella Boccia)

Love does not come to rescue mefrom the depths of my soul’s tempest—it does not offer its hands,glowing like stars above the chaos.No, love does not save.But it holds me,tenderly,in the way shadows hold the earthwhen the sun has gone to rest.It does not extinguish the firesthat burn within me,nor still the storm in my chest—it watches,quiet as a ghost,as I spiral into myself,and waitslike a forgotten songthat lingers in the corners of silence.Love does not heal the cracksthat grow with each passing hour,nor fill the emptinessthat stretches out,endlessly,like a barren field under a cold moon.But it holds me,in the way the ocean holdsthe waveseven as they crash against its shore.It is not a savior,not a cure for my wounds,but a soft murmur in the night—a warmth that does not burn,but touches me like a whisperthat speaks in languages I have forgotten.Love does not save mebut it keeps me from falling apartinto the dust of a worldthat has forgotten how to breathe.And in that quiet,in that steady embrace,I find a sliver of peace—not salvation,but something far more fragileand beautiful:the comfort of knowingthat I am held,even when I am lost.