I spent years learning to be alone.
Built walls out of goodbyes.
Learned the architecture of leaving
before anyone could leave me first.
Then you arrived
and everything I knew
became useless.
Your hands are undoers.
They unbutton my defences
unlace my fears
unmake the careful person
I spent decades becoming.
When you touch me
I forget
why I was ever afraid.
When you touch me
I remember
what bodies are for.
Not just this,
though this,
god,
this.
But the way you hold me after.
The way you trace my spine
like you're memorising
a poem you never want to forget.
The way you say my name
softly
like it matters.
I used to think desire was hunger.
Something to be fed
and then forgotten.
You taught me
it's a garden.
Something to be tended.
Something that grows
the more you give it.
Your mouth on my throat
is water.
Your hands on my hips
is sun.
Your body moving with mine
is the seasons turning
and turning
and turning.
I will spend the rest of my life
learning to cultivate
what you've planted.
There is a moment
just before dawn
when you're still asleep
and I'm watching you breathe.
Your face is soft.
Your lips are parted.
Your hand reaches for me
even in dreaming.
This is the part
I can't explain.
This is the part
that has no metaphor.
Just you.
Just me.
Just the quiet miracle
of waking up
next to someone
who chose to stay.
Wake up.
I want to show you
something I learned in the night.
Wake up.
I want to tell you
without words.
Wake up.
I want to love you
until we both forget
how to be alone.
