Relationships

On another love…all my tears have been used up…

On another love…all my tears have been used up…


Have you ever been exhausted by an old love?

There is a particular kind of tired that love leaves behind, a quiet, aching fatigue that doesn’t roar like heartbreak, but lingers like a shadow. It’s not the devastation of a love lost, but the soul-weariness that comes from loving, again. From hoping, again. From standing at the edge of something new with your heart in your hands, praying this time won’t end like all the others.


Each time we love, we offer pieces of ourselves we may never get back. We tell ourselves this one is different, this one might stay, this one might finally understand the language of our silences. And so we open up. We soften our voices, we hide the trembling, we press down the grief from past goodbyes. We fold our pain into small, quiet corners so it doesn’t scare them away. We hold our breath and try, God, we try, to believe.


But love, for all its beauty, is not gentle when it comes in waves. When it crashes again and again, arriving suddenly, leaving too soon, it leaves splinters. It chips away at the hope we once carried so easily. What was once thrilling begins to feel like erosion. What was once sacred begins to feel like sacrifice.


We carry so much into each new love. Ghosts of hands that once held us. Echoes of promises that turned to dust. The bruises may not show, but they are there, in the way we hesitate before we speak, in the way we flinch when someone says forever. We want to believe, still. But even belief feels heavy now.


And yet, love keeps calling.


We are built for connection. We ache to be seen, to be understood, to be chosen. But there comes a point when even the softest kind of love begins to feel like a burden, when the risk of losing ourselves outweighs the sweetness of being found. When another “almost” feels like a thunderstorm rolling in just as the sky cleared.


And when it ends, again, we’re left trying to remember who we were before them. We gather the broken pieces in silence. We question what we’re doing wrong. We wonder how many times we can keep giving like this before there’s nothing left to offer.


To be exhausted by another love is not a sign of weakness. It is the mark of someone who has dared, again and again, to pour their heart into something uncertain. It is the battle-wear of the brave. But it is also the quiet cry of someone who just wants peace. Who longs for a love that won’t ask them to bleed to be worthy.


Still, despite it all, many of us keep showing up. We keep hoping. Because maybe, just maybe, the next love won’t feel like a storm. Maybe it will feel like shelter. Maybe it will be gentle. Maybe it will stay.


Maybe it will be home.

On another love…all my tears have been used up…
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