she’s both salvation and unravel in one. a wound that prays, a touch that undoes me, slowly, like pulling thread from the edge of a shirt i should have never worn that night. her eyes are the world and what’s in it - oceans, wars, cathedrals, things built to be worshipped and things built to be broken. i don’t know love without shaking. without the fear that i’ll mistake devotion for destruction, that the way i hold her might become the way i lose her. i worry that love’s a violence. not loud - but quiet, the way water softens rock over years. the way wanting someone too much starts to look like ruin. she leans in and i flinch from my own breath not because i don’t want it but because i do. and maybe that’s the worst of it - that something so soft can still feel like falling through the ground.
Discussion about this post
No posts