The last love.

THE LAST LOVE — BALANCED VERSION

It does not arrive in spring.
Spring belongs to the first.

It comes in late autumn,
when branches stand bare
like truth without illusion,
and fallen leaves lie warm
on the earth —
a blanket of all that has passed.

First love is a flood.
It breaks the banks.
Changes the course.
Takes bridges, houses, and you with it.
And leaves you asking
who you are
after the water is gone.

The last love
is a river in August.
It knows its bed.
It does not hurry.
That is why it runs deep.

You are two old oaks
by the same river.
Your branches remember storms.
Your bark keeps the lightning.
Your roots have long intertwined
beneath the earth,
where no one sees
how many years
you have been holding each other.

You know her by this:
beside her,
an old wound
stops begging to be noticed.
And simply
begins to heal.

She does not want to remake you.
She speaks as a garden speaks to a tree:

Grow as you grew.

She does not ask,
“Where have you been?”

She says,
“How good that you made it.”

Wind off the sea.
“You’ll be cold.”

With her,
you can be bad weather.
You can be silent.
You do not have to save the world.
You do not have to be strong.

She will put a scarf around your shoulders,
pour a second cup,
lay a hand on your shoulder,
and quietly ask,
“Did you sleep?”

You are like the sea and the shore.
The sea stays the sea.
The shore stays the shore.
But next to each other
both finally find their meaning.

Love here is not a kiss.
It is handing you the mug
so you don’t burn your hands.
Pulling the blanket over you at night.
Leaving the light on in the hall.

It is hearing that you cannot fall asleep
in the next room —
and not asking,
“What is it again?”
But simply coming over
and lying down beside you.

A person here is not a cure.
Not a lifebuoy.
Not an answer.
Not a remedy for loneliness.

A person is a person.
Fragile.
Stubborn.
Finite.
And therefore
priceless.

She does not say
“Forever.”
Forever is too big a word for mortals.

She says,

“I am here.”
“I’ve got you.”
“We’ll get through winter.”

And in those simple words
there is more eternity
than in any promise.

The last love
does not argue with time.
It sits beside you
and listens to snow
touching the roof.

It does not erase the past.
Or pain.
Or age.
Or death.

It simply makes the road toward them
no longer a road
walked alone.

This is not the end.
This is the moment you finally say:

Enough.
I don’t need to search anymore.

Not because you found perfection.
But because you found presence.

My garden has dead branches.
It has shadows.
Places where spring comes late.

But you are in it.

And you can fall asleep first.
You don’t have to check the door.
You don’t have to listen to the silence
for the sound of leaving.

You can close your eyes.
Because someone is breathing beside you.

Outside the walls
there may be sea.
There may be winter.
There may be night.

But inside
there is warmth.

Inside the house,
the wind has gone still.

Alın Ak / KaJe MeG