She strolls all through my mind,
Much like a fire ripping through a cathedral
not ruin, nor ash
just each candle lit and burning at once
‘Til the walls sweat their gold.
I’ve loved ma chère in ways that would make saints nervous.
Not a gentle love, never a gentle love
The kind of love what keeps men awake in the dead of the night
staring at the blank, lifeless ceiling laid before him like it owes him answers to questions he inquires of,
the kind which turns each song into a prophecy,
Each burning lit cigarette into a prayer,
Each crowded room into a rampant search for her gorgeous face.
The things ma chère does without trying.
She’ll laugh, and suddenly I can understand why sailors drown willingly with their ship,
Why poets died destitute,
Why men warred over women
whose names lingered in them like wounds.
If she asked me,
I would follow her into anarchy smiling.
Not because she bears some sort of cruelty,
she doesn’t
That’s the worst part.
Ma chère is soft in places life forgets to be.
She touches me as if she’s returning something lost long ago.
As if she discovered my heartbeat abandoned elsewhere
and trudged it home with her bare hands.
I become quite ridiculous in her presence.
The devout fool,
The man with the shaky hands,
The boy trying to hold lightning
Who tries to convince himself it doesn’t hurt.
Many times I look at ma chère
and feel a terrible, beautiful grief,
like I’ve already begun my missing of her
Even while she’s still beside me.
Because she feels so temporary
The way that sunsets do,
The way that storms do,
Much too beautiful to stay
And yet ma chère seems to stay
She always stays
So I love her so greedily
With both of my hands,
With all of my fingers,
Like how Remy looks at Anna Marie
knowing her touch could **** him
and wanting it so badly anyway.
I’ve memorized everything about her
the cadence of her sweet voice,
the shape of her beautiful silence,
How her eyes turn devastating
when she forgets that anyone is looking.
Especially myself, who would spend a lifetime being haunted by her gladly.
If tragedy would ever come for us,
it won’t be because we lacked love.
It will be solely because mine grew much too large to carry.
Because some hearts
weren’t ever built for such moderation.
And ma chère I can tell you,
is the first religion
that has ever made sense to me
May 27
May 27, 2026 at 10:51 PM UTC
She strolls all through my mind,
Much like a fire ripping through a cathedral
not ruin, nor ash
just each candle lit and burning at once
‘Til the walls sweat their gold.
I’ve loved ma chère in ways that would make saints nervous.
Not a gentle love, never a gentle love
The kind of love what keeps men awake in the dead of the night
staring at the blank, lifeless ceiling laid before him like it owes him answers to questions he inquires of,
the kind which turns each song into a prophecy,
Each burning lit cigarette into a prayer,
Each crowded room into a rampant search for her gorgeous face.
The things ma chère does without trying.
She’ll laugh, and suddenly I can understand why sailors drown willingly with their ship,
Why poets died destitute,
Why men warred over women
whose names lingered in them like wounds.
If she asked me,
I would follow her into anarchy smiling.
Not because she bears some sort of cruelty,
she doesn’t
That’s the worst part.
Ma chère is soft in places life forgets to be.
She touches me as if she’s returning something lost long ago.
As if she discovered my heartbeat abandoned elsewhere
and trudged it home with her bare hands.
I become quite ridiculous in her presence.
The devout fool,
The man with the shaky hands,
The boy trying to hold lightning
Who tries to convince himself it doesn’t hurt.
Many times I look at ma chère
and feel a terrible, beautiful grief,
like I’ve already begun my missing of her
Even while she’s still beside me.
Because she feels so temporary
The way that sunsets do,
The way that storms do,
Much too beautiful to stay
And yet ma chère seems to stay
She always stays
So I love her so greedily
With both of my hands,
With all of my fingers,
Like how Remy looks at Anna Marie
knowing her touch could **** him
and wanting it so badly anyway.
I’ve memorized everything about her
the cadence of her sweet voice,
the shape of her beautiful silence,
How her eyes turn devastating
when she forgets that anyone is looking.
Especially myself, who would spend a lifetime being haunted by her gladly.
If tragedy would ever come for us,
it won’t be because we lacked love.
It will be solely because mine grew much too large to carry.
Because some hearts
weren’t ever built for such moderation.
And ma chère I can tell you,
is the first religion
that has ever made sense to me
🧮🧮🧮 couple abaci for the road
