I forget my name when your hands are on my hips—
not in a holy way,
but like a match forgets it was wood
before the flame.

You come in quiet,
a storm learning how to whisper,
& I’m all windows—open, rattling,
daring the wind to break me.

Love, 
you kiss like you’re stealing something.
Like the world might end mid-mouth
& we’d still owe it a sin.
And what is want if not a crime
we keep committing with gentler hands?

I want to be honest here.
I want to say:
I knew I’d ruin you the second you looked at me
like I was the last song left in the jukebox
& all your quarters were grief.
Maybe I’m lying. Maybe I just hoped
you’d sing me until the end.

And we don’t make love.
We make something else.
Something closer to wreckage,
but softer.
A house we keep rebuilding 
even as it burns.

But the things we can touch—
skin, collarbone, the tender
blister of a bite,
that’s our religion, baby
& yet still
you keep asking
what kind of love this is.

I don’t know.
maybe the kind that leaves bruises
in the shape of praise.
Maybe the kind that teaches your name
to my tongue
like a second language
I never want to unlearn.