Understand this gently:
you own nothing.
Not the house that holds your laughter,
not the chair that remembers your shape,
not even the hands you wake up with each morning.
Everything that surrounds you
has only agreed to stay awhile.
The sun borrows your window.
The wind passes through your name.
Even the ground beneath your feet
will one day forget your footsteps.
Time is a careful thief—
it does not rush,
it does not announce itself,
it simply takes
what was never meant to be kept.
Your body, too, is a visitor.
Your breath, a loan.
Your days, a brief arrangement
between arrival and return.
But love—
love is the one thing that refuses to leave.
It does not belong to rooms or walls,
to seasons or clocks.
It does not rust,
does not crack,
does not ask for proof of ownership.
Love settles where nothing else can—
in the quiet between heartbeats,
in the way you carry others
even after they are gone.
When everything else loosens its grip—
titles, possessions, names carved in stone—
love remains,
weightless and indestructible,
moving freely through memory and soul.
So hold nothing too tightly.
Let the world pass through you.
Only the love in your heart
was ever meant to last forever.
_billymacdeus
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