The night splits open like an old wound,
your hands press against the ache,
unweaving the heaviness that clings to me.

Beneath your skin, a constellation whispers—
rebellion wrapped in light,
I surrender to its pull.

Your eyes, sharp as memory,
hold truths I cannot name.

They sing of battles and soft winds,
of hunger that does not apologize.

Each layer you shed is a testimony,
your touch, a reckoning—
both fire and balm.

I follow the shadowed path you carve,
your voice like a spell
that gathers all my scattered pieces.

Your fingertips rewrite my grief,
turning my silences into stars.

You are the architect of my unbecoming,
the pulse of my reclamation.

In your arms, the axis shifts,
a fierce hymn rising from quiet.

You unlace the day with a deliberate breath,
and I let myself love you—
not for reason,
but because resistance feels futile
in the face of you.