These verses do not speak of love—they exhume it. They are relics of an affection too feral to be confessed, too luminous to be forgotten. Here, devotion does not bloom; it corrodes, seeping through the marrow of solitude, staining every quiet hour. These poems do not talk about love—they dig it out from where it was buried. They hold the remains of a feeling too wild to admit, too bright to forget. In these pages, love does not bloom; it burns quietly, filling every lonely moment. Each poem is an ossuary of unsentences—fragments of longing embalmed in ink, desperate to survive their own silence. This book is not for those who love lightly; it is for those who have tasted ruin and called it tenderness.