Love is just a word
people throw around
like confetti or knives—
depending on the sharp of their day.

I once read that love is a noun
but that sounds so wrong—
because when I love you
my heart bleeds through my shirt—
like trying to say good morning
without sounding like a rescue dog.

They don’t tell you love
can sound like a washing machine
three minutes from spinning apart—
or look like my hands
gripping your thighs
without losing their cool.

No one talks about how
when you whisper the word 'babe'
the hollow of my knees
feels like you’re a church
and I’m praying you won’t leave.

I’m told there are definitions,
brilliant ones in books—
but none explain how your mouth
feels like a world of good,
or how your breath
is the only song I want
to fall asleep to.

I don’t know what love is,
but if it’s the art of opening
the most terrifying soft part of ourselves—
then maybe we’ve been doing it right
all along.