when a deep love grips you, you don’t mind—

you savor it and say thank you.

it takes you by surprise and suffocates you, hand on throat— callous, stern, kind.

at first it scares you, then comfort envelopes. possibility emerges.

you cough, your lacquer-coated, oak-like lungs tapped dry and somehow full, heart still deep, and thoroughly unsure which way leads home.

you’re still whole and never won’t be, but something tells you there’s another piece out there.

the hand on the throat; the shrapnel in your lungs; the serenity behind a contented chuckle at some half-assed joke.

all the same, it’s real. and you know it. and it won’t leave you, even if things don’t end the way you want.

it’s been said that it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I want to say it’s true.

cough as much as you need, ask for a drink, and speak deeply and honestly without losing yourself.