Taurus Sun: Luxury Survivalist

I don’t forget.
I preserve.
There’s a difference.
Forgetting is passive.
Preserving is archival warfare.

The house still smells like sandalwood.
The guest towel you never used is folded, creased like a memory that won’t unfold.
I changed the locks, but the key’s still under the mat.

For me.
Not you.
You left.

But the garden didn’t.
The garlic still comes up in spring.
The peonies bloomed without your apology.
Even my grief has better roots than you.

I built this love like infrastructure: thick-walled, sunlit, with a wine fridge and hurricane glass.
No storm of yours could shatter what I reinforced.
You were a weather disaster.
I’m a foundation.

I know what good love is.
I set the table for it.
Every night.
Even now.
Even if I eat alone.
Even if I salt the food like I’m seasoning the wound.

I grieve in cashmere.
I seethe in linen.
I rage in 400-thread count silence.

And I remember everything.
What you said.
What you didn’t.
How you never noticed the wall decorations that I changed.

This isn’t a shrine.
It’s a fortress with throw pillows.
And you wouldn’t last an hour in it now.

But I loved you deeply.
The kind of love that hums low, steady as a heartbeat under the floorboards.
The kind of love that stays polite when dying.
That still waters the plants you once forgot to notice blooming.
That still wants the best for you — but never again in my home.

Don’t confuse my silence for softness.
The bull doesn’t bellow unless provoked.
But she remembers the red.

She catalogues it.
She installs a clawfoot tub over it.
She builds her exits in marble and charges only when it’s worth it.

I don’t get over.
I build around.
Luxury is survival, and I’m still here — gilded, grounded, dangerously composed.

So if you ever come back, bring an offering.
Because I don’t open doors anymore: I collect keys.