Aren loved the emperor
the way a candle loves the sun
softly, foolishly,
knowing he would burn.
He confessed one quiet night,
voice shaking like a leaf:
“I love you, Your Majesty.”
The king did not flinch.
Did not soften.
Did not even turn.
“Love me if you wish,” he said,
“but I feel nothing for men.
And nothing for you.”
Aren fell silent.
Some hearts break loudly
his broke like snow:
quiet, disappearing.
When he walked away,
the king did not watch.
Did not whisper.
Did not ache.
Aren loved a man made of stone.
And stones do not mourn
when flowers wilt at their feet.
