after the pipe,
our mouths go quiet.
his fingers tremble / not from fear / but from the light
too bright for skin
too bright for names.

i call him angel
not because he is
but because he never asks where i go
when my eyes lose their center.

the smoke spins / & the ceiling forgets itself
like we do.
our bones humming with glass / & godlessness
but still—
he kisses me like i’m worth surviving.

this isn’t love
i know
i’ve loved before & it didn’t taste like battery acid
or 6 a.m. silence
or the shaking that doesn’t stop after the high does.

but he holds my face
like it’s still a map
like there’s still something left to find
beneath the bruises
& the burnt foil.

he laughs—
& it’s ugly
& it’s beautiful
& i want to keep it / even if it cuts.

he says:
you’re the only one who stays
& i want to say:
only because i can’t leave without breaking too.

i want to believe
this isn’t a lie
that what we feel isn’t just chemical
isn’t just the substance
tricking our skin
into thinking we’re safe.

but the truth is
we fall
not into love—
into each other like a shared wound.

& even this,
even this feels like prayer
in a place
where nothing should be forgiven.