Every living being must be aware of its impending demise.
Or is it just me, —seeing the dead end before we
even get the chance to die?
Lie. Say "I do," see us grow old together to gather that which we will put asunder. I ponder.

A poem comes to me, she said: This world is fragile. It can crumble so easily, but baby, don’t be afraid to take your tongue out and taste it.
All of it: the good, the bad, the limitless hope.

This life will hit you, hard—in the face. Then wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach.
But getting that wind knocked out of you will remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.

She is good with words.
Yes—there is hurt, here.
That cant be healed by poetry.
But there is also joy, laughter, and a pinch of happiness.
Unforgetting dreams beyond the ages.
Because these, — Yes, these are the days of our lives.
Where every living being is aware of its impending demise.

You are more than I imagined.
Not just the fire, but the warmth after.
The kind that lingers in sheets, in skin, in the spaces between my thoughts.
Your smile, God, your smile.
It didn’t just light-up the room. It slowed time.
It undid every timeline I have doubted if someone like you could be real.
And somehow your hands remembered me.
Like they were just waiting for the shape of my waist, the weight of
my wanting, the hush between my inhale, they had my lips whispered your name like a sacred melody.
I dreamt of you in moments of heat and hunger.
But loving you in the flesh was softer. Wiser,
Like the wild finally located its rhythm.
When we touched, nothing burned, nothing broke. But the old guards fell.
The ghosts of old packed their bags and left our peace.
I no longer guess what your laugh sounds like when you’re half asleep,
Or what your hands feel like when you don’t want to let go.
Now, now...I wake with your breath tangled in mine and I think:
So, this, This is what home feels like.