Love

Love

It’s as worn out as old bed sheets. No color left. Once meant to cover the bed, now only to hide it. Out of shame. Out of neglect. And out of pain.

Your heart dies away. And when you think, you cry. They’ve taken everything. Even your dignity. But like an old dog, you refuse to be patted. Out of pity.

You don’t want sad looks. You just want peace. To be there with your few hairs and wrinkled face. In a static position. Or in motion. But your motion.

You’re tired of being told what to do or not do. Wrapped in a blanket of empathy and help. If you want things to change, start by changing yourself. You think. While lifting weights and looking in the mirror.

Your eyes don’t lie. You’re 42 now, and in your glory days you never went unnoticed. But now, what’s happening? With all the exercise and healthy eating, cortisol won the battle. And your belly looks up and laughs in your face.

You shower and lie down. On that bed that’s clean. And empty. So clean from not being used. As God intended. For years. What has passed through your life? What storm?

Reality hits you and you believe the tale of triumph and success. You’re young. You can still be happy, even fulfilled. Who knows? Maybe build generational wealth and secure your children’s future.

You don’t want them to go through what you did. Every self-respecting parent doesn’t wish their life for their children. The truth is, we all think love alone creates miracles. But no.

It’s love. But also work. And drive. And not giving up. And loving others as much as you should love yourself. And you hug yourself. And kiss yourself. And say: everything will be okay. While looking in the mirror.

But the mirror doesn’t lie. And like an hourglass of relentless time, it doesn’t stop. And each grain that falls shows you your bed sheets are worn and colorless. Your belly refuses to win the battle against cortisol. And your soul has gray hairs. Not the pretty kind. The kind that make you look like a witch.

Oh God. Why not give me a stroke of luck this time? And instead of suffering and wondering what will become of my life, of what’s left of it, and of my children... to lose the fear of flying. And disappear. With honor. To enjoy what I truly wish to do deep down.

What’s left, my soul, but a few grains of sand? A few cosmic minutes only God can count. Every breath, every heartbeat. And every old bed sheet. Is a story that stays with you. In your heart. And in your love story. Something that soon, no one will remember.

Felix Perez Cuza
08/09/2025