He says he loves me—
or he said it once,
when I tried to leave.
His knees kissed the cold tile
of our small white kitchen,
his voice a trembling psalm of need.

Is this love,
or a mausoleum I’ve mistaken for shelter?
Am I trading my breath
for the comfort of his ghost?

They tell me this is right.
They smile like prophets
preaching from their pews—
why would they lie?
Their voices echo louder than mine.

I had dreams once.
Bright things with teeth and flight.
A life I etched in the corners
of notebooks and night skies—
but I suppose it can sleep,
for him.
He is the love of my life.
He must be.
He has to be.

I can always chase stars
some other time,
after the dust has settled,
after the vows are spoken,
after I forget who I was.

I am still young,
though time weeps from my mirror.
I could wait—
but he cried again tonight,
on the floor of our pale, quiet kitchen.
He wept like the dead weep,
when the earth forgets them.

The house knows.
It leans in closer each night.
The corners darker, the silence deeper.
Even the air waits, holding its breath.

Should I do this?

Surely…
Surely he’ll still love me
this way
in ten years.

…Right?