I wish I could wrap myself
inside his brain—
curl up in the quiet folds of it
like a thought he hasn’t finished yet.
I want his knowledge
to seep through my skin,
slow and sacred,
like ink bleeding into paper—
To thread itself through my veins
until my blood remembers
how he used to say my name.
I want it to reach my mind,
to infect my thinking,
to rearrange the furniture
of every room inside my head
where he still lives
like a ghost that never packed.
And if I lay there long enough,
if I let his presence move through me
like something viral and holy,
maybe it will repair
this fragile immune system
I built after he left.
Maybe it will teach my heart
not to attack what it loves.
Because I have been sick with him.
Sick with the memory of his hands.
Sick with the way silence sounds
when it isn’t his.
Sick with the ache of knowing
I ruined something sacred
and still want it back.
But maybe love was never the illness.
Maybe silence was.
Maybe pride was.
Maybe fear crawled into my bloodstream
and convinced me survival meant running.
And now he is coming back around the store we met at—
like a season that swore it was done.
Like the tide returning to a shoreline
that pretended it didn’t care.
I am terrified.
Because I don’t know how he feels about me now…
Because he’s all I think about…
And what if his love
is not medicine?
What if it overtakes my lungs
the way it used to—
until every breath tastes like him
and every exhale is surrender?
What if loving him
means dying in slow, beautiful ways—
drowning in the sound of his laugh,
breaking open at the brush of his fingers,
losing myself in the gravity
of being wanted
by the only person
who ever felt like oxygen?
But then—
Your love is not just a sickness,
I want to tell him.
It is not some incurable thing
I must survive.
…
It is the reason
my lungs were created—
to exhale the smoke you breathe in,
to share the same air
without suffocating.
You are not the poison.
You are the breath.
And maybe love is not meant
to be immune.
Maybe it is meant to be inhaled,
reckless and real,
even if it burns a little
on the way down.
So if you are coming back—
come gently.
Come honest.
Come knowing that I am still
beautifully broken
And I’m still in love with you.
If you decide to come back and stay,
I’ll make it known that your lungs are my priority-
That your heart is safe on my couch-
That I will unwind your tempted mind…
And if I let you inhale my exhale,
let it not be as a virus
Or lung cancer..
but as something alive—
As something that does not destroy
our lungs,
but teaches them
how to breathe.
Feb 23
Feb 23, 2026 at 9:56 PM UTC
I wish I could wrap myself
inside his brain—
curl up in the quiet folds of it
like a thought he hasn’t finished yet.
I want his knowledge
to seep through my skin,
slow and sacred,
like ink bleeding into paper—
To thread itself through my veins
until my blood remembers
how he used to say my name.
I want it to reach my mind,
to infect my thinking,
to rearrange the furniture
of every room inside my head
where he still lives
like a ghost that never packed.
And if I lay there long enough,
if I let his presence move through me
like something viral and holy,
maybe it will repair
this fragile immune system
I built after he left.
Maybe it will teach my heart
not to attack what it loves.
Because I have been sick with him.
Sick with the memory of his hands.
Sick with the way silence sounds
when it isn’t his.
Sick with the ache of knowing
I ruined something sacred
and still want it back.
But maybe love was never the illness.
Maybe silence was.
Maybe pride was.
Maybe fear crawled into my bloodstream
and convinced me survival meant running.
And now he is coming back around the store we met at—
like a season that swore it was done.
Like the tide returning to a shoreline
that pretended it didn’t care.
I am terrified.
Because I don’t know how he feels about me now…
Because he’s all I think about…
And what if his love
is not medicine?
What if it overtakes my lungs
the way it used to—
until every breath tastes like him
and every exhale is surrender?
What if loving him
means dying in slow, beautiful ways—
drowning in the sound of his laugh,
breaking open at the brush of his fingers,
losing myself in the gravity
of being wanted
by the only person
who ever felt like oxygen?
But then—
Your love is not just a sickness,
I want to tell him.
It is not some incurable thing
I must survive.
…
It is the reason
my lungs were created—
to exhale the smoke you breathe in,
to share the same air
without suffocating.
You are not the poison.
You are the breath.
And maybe love is not meant
to be immune.
Maybe it is meant to be inhaled,
reckless and real,
even if it burns a little
on the way down.
So if you are coming back—
come gently.
Come honest.
Come knowing that I am still
beautifully broken
And I’m still in love with you.
If you decide to come back and stay,
I’ll make it known that your lungs are my priority-
That your heart is safe on my couch-
That I will unwind your tempted mind…
And if I let you inhale my exhale,
let it not be as a virus
Or lung cancer..
but as something alive—
As something that does not destroy
our lungs,
but teaches them
how to breathe.
