The Wuthering Art of Love. - by Nomshu Writes✨

I Learned Love by Watching It RotI was not born for stormsI was silk, soft-spoken,a girl taught that love arrives with clean handsand leaves no blood on the sheets.Then I saw him.And Godhow quickly innocence mistakes hunger for devotion. They warned me, of course.They always do, the well-fed, the well-loved.Edgar Linton spoke like polished silvergentle, reasonable,a man who would never break a thing he could own.And Catherine Earnshawshe was a fever dressed as a woman,all wildfire laughter and ruin.She belonged nowhere,so she chose everything.And himHeathcliffhe was the absence of mercy shaped into a body.Tell mehow was I supposed to know the differencebetween loveand a knife that whispers your name? I thought myself rich.Not in coin no,but in the quiet certainty that I could be chosen,kept, adored.But there are poverties deeper than hungerand I was starving without knowing it.He looked at melike I was nothingand I mistook itfor depth. I gambled everything on him.Not moneyno, something far more delicate.My pulse.My breath.The soft, trembling place between my ribswhere hope curls like a sleeping animal.I placed it all in his handslike a foolish girl at a card table,smiling as she loses the house,the name,the futurethinking the game itselfis love. He touched me oncenot gently,never gentlybut with a kind of desperate violencethat made my bones feel seen.And IGod forgive meI wanted more.Wanted the ruin.Wanted the burn.Wanted to be consumed so completelythat I would forgetwho I was before him.Is this what it means to wutherto ache so loudlythe wind learns your voice? But I was not her.Not Cathy.I could not haunt him properly.Could not carve my name into his marrow.Could not live inside his madnesslike a second heartbeat.I was only the echothe body he usedto remember another soul.And stillstill I stayed. There are nightsthe earth itself seems to breathe.Have you ever listened to it?The soil shifting,the roots tightening their griparound what once was warm?I have.I followed him oncethrough wind that howled like a widow,through darkness thick as confessionand I saw it.The grave.The trembling hands.The fevered eyes.The way lovewhen left too longdoes not fade,but ferments. He opened it.Not like a manbut like something starved beyond reason.And II did not scream.Because I understood.That is the most frightening part.I understood. To love something already goneto press your face against deathand still call it hometo choose bones over breath,memory over mercyto lie beside what cannot love you backand whisper,stay. What is wealth, then?Is it Edgar’s quiet rooms,his clean, untouched heart?Or is it thisthis unbearable fullness of feeling,this drowning,this decay that feels like devotion?If this is poverty,then why does it feel so full?If this is love,why does it smell like earth? I was innocent once.Now I know better.Love is not a gardenit is a grave you keep digging,hoping one dayit will answer you back.And sometimeswhen the wind is right,and the night forgets itselfI think it does.

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