Holding Hands In The Dark Poem by New Girl Dark NewGirlDark

Love did not cure the curse.

It could not erase what lived in the blood,
could not silence the shadows breathing beneath the skin.

No prayer was strong enough,
no miracle gentle enough
to rewrite the ending carved into fate long before we met.

Love arrived with warm hands and tired eyes,
not as a savior,
but as a quiet companion standing beside the ruins.

It found broken bones beneath beautiful words,
a soul trembling behind forced smiles,
and a heart already exhausted from surviving itself.

There was no remedy hidden in kisses,
no escape sleeping inside promises whispered at midnight.

The darkness still lingered in every corner,
stretching across sleepless nights
and curling itself around every fragile thought.

But when fear became unbearable,
when the silence grew sharp enough to wound,
love stayed.

It held a trembling hand when the body shook from invisible wars.

It sat awake through endless nights
where the air felt too heavy to breathe
and the future looked like an empty hallway with no light at the end.

Love listened to the quiet cries no one else could hear.

It memorized every scar, every fracture, every hidden grief,
and never turned away in disgust.

The curse remained.

The pain still lived beneath the ribs like a sleeping monster.

Some mornings still arrived cold and merciless,
and some nights still tasted like loneliness and decay.

Yet even while the darkness closed in,
no one stood alone inside it anymore.

Because sometimes love does not rescue us from suffering.

It cannot heal every wound
or undo every tragedy written into our existence.

Sometimes love is simply the soft voice saying
'I am here'
while the world falls apart around us.

Sometimes it is the quiet presence beside a hospital bed,
the hand resting gently over another heartbeat,
the tears shared in silence when words no longer matter.

And perhaps that is its own kind of miracle.

Not salvation.

Not a cure.

Not an ending without pain.

Just two wounded souls
remaining beside each other
while the storm refuses to end.

And still, beneath the weight of everything that could not be fixed,
something small refused to die.

Not hope, not fully
hope was too bright, too fragile for that kind of darkness.

But something quieter.

Something more stubborn.

A presence.

Like embers buried under ash
that do not claim to be fire anymore,
yet still remember heat.

Love learned not to ask the storm to stop.

It stopped bargaining with fate,
stopped searching for doors that did not exist in walls built from pain.

Instead, it became rhythm.

The steady inhale when panic rose too fast.

The counting of seconds through shaking hands.

The shared silence that no longer demanded to be filled with answers.

There were days when nothing changed at all
when the curse still spoke through the body,
when grief still woke up first and went to sleep last.

And yet, even on those days,
there was evidence of something different:

Two shadows moving through the same room
without disappearing from each other.

Not fixed.

Not saved.

Not rewritten.

Just… accompanied.

And maybe that was the only rebellion left against everything that tried to make existence unbearable to remain present
in a world that kept insisting on absence.

@NewGirlDark