Come here.
Let me unmake you.
Let me turn the hard lines of your thoughts
into liquid, into light.
Let me take the burden from your hands
and place it upon my lips.
This is the alchemy of us—
how I take your sorrow,
how I taste your fire,
how my tongue turns your sighs
into something holy.
And when you forget yourself,
when your body sings in shivers and gasps,
you will know:
there was never a cure for this world
except the worship of love’s slow hands
and a lover’s patient mouth.
There is a thread between us,
woven before the first kiss,
before the first night we let the silence where are you trying to download it from
say more than our lips ever could.
I pull it, you pull it,
but it never breaks.
Even when the world tilts,
even when the distance grows long,
it hums beneath my skin—
the music of belonging.
You are my person.
Not because I chose you,
but because fate did,
and I was wise enough to listen.
The fear is a quiet drum,
a slow, relentless beat
at the edge of every thought—
that I am losing you,
and with each passing moment,
the gap widens like a canyon
etched by an unseen hand.
I trace your shadow
in the fading light of dusk,
each silhouette a reminder
that what is held so dearly
can slip through the fingers
of time’s unyielding current.
I hold onto the memory
of your laughter,
the warmth in your eyes,
as if by naming these fragments
I might trap you within them,
against the certainty of absence.
Yet the night whispers
that loss is inevitable,
an echo waiting in the wings,
and my heart trembles
at the thought that this fear,
this aching dread,
will one day stand true.
Still, I cling to you,
to the solace of your touch,
hoping that love can defy
the cold calculus of fate—
even as I fear
the moment when your light
fades into the distance,
leaving me alone
with the silence of what was.
You have carried too much,
worn the weight of the world
like armor that does not fit.
But love, you were never meant to bend like this,
never meant to wear your own heart
like a wound you cannot hide.
Come—
let me be the hands that lift you,
the voice that reminds you of your fire.
Let me be the wind
that clears the ash from your shoulders,
the warmth that turns your trembling
back into strength.
You are not made of what has broken you.
You are not the echoes of your doubt.
You are the storm before it rises,
the mountain before it moves,
the light I have built my world around.
And when you forget,
when the night settles too heavy
on your ribs,
I will be here—
gathering every fallen piece,
placing them back into your hands,
whispering,
LOOK HOW STRONG YOU STILL ARE.
Come closer.
I have been sick with the weight of waiting,
with the cold that settled in my ribs
when your hands were not there to warm them.
Lay your mouth against mine—
not gently, not softly,
but like fire meeting ice,
like something desperate for survival.
I have wandered through nights
where the sheets were glaciers,
where my breath curled like frost in the dark,
where my body ached
for the heat of you pressed against it,
for the fever of your skin
to burn the sickness away.
And now, you are here.
Flesh and warmth,
hunger and cure,
the only medicine I have ever believed in.
So let me drink you in.
Let me drown in the fire of us.
Let me burn,
and burn,
and never be cold again.
I love our late nights. I’ll love our early mornings even more. Hearing your voice is the sweetest thing a man could hear. Tasting your body will be the sweetest thing a man could taste.
This distance can try and get in our way all it wants to but every morning when I wake up I smile because of the previous days conversations. The previous nights naughty bits. 😏 The previous weeks ups and downs and how we managed to make it through once again showing that nothing can stop us. This week showed me once again that you can calm me down like nobody else. You are just the most amazing person. I can not wait to tell you this on a daily basis.
The wind has taken your name,
buried it deep in the frost-laced pines,
where the wolves move like shadows,
where the night is thick with hunger.
I do not speak it.
Not here, where the air is too sharp,
where the ice snaps like bone beneath my boots,
where the river wears its silence
like a veil of glass.
You are far—
past the ridge where the storm coils,
past the arctic current that drowns
even the most faithful wings.
Still, my hands remember.
The heat of you beneath them,
the fire you left beneath my skin,
the way your breath once traced my ribs
as if mapping a place
you never meant to leave.
I press my palms into the snow.
It burns, but not like you.
Not like the ruin you left behind.
The wolves are calling,
but I am not ready to follow.
Not yet.
Not until the frost in my chest
learns how to kill the last of your fire.
Love, you are the moon I follow through endless night,
a lantern beyond mountains I have yet to climb.
What are these miles but whispers in the wind?
What are these years but the slow turning of the sun?You call to me from the other side of longing,
and though rivers rise, though the road bends and breaks,
I do not ask when—only how soon
this dust of waiting will settle into dawn.Do not weep, beloved, for love is a flame
that burns away distance as fire drinks air.
I have already reached you—
for where your heart beats, so does mine.
I found you in the hush of a borrowed room,
where the moon hummed secrets to the blinds,
your voice was a river of velvet ruin,
and I drowned like a man who never minds.
I told you I’d build you a tower of words,
you laughed like a woman who knows the lie,
so I offered you nothing, and you took it whole,
left me aching beneath a paper sky.
Now your perfume lingers in a ghostless place,
where the sheets still whisper your name,
I light a candle, I sip the dark,
but love, the ember burns the same.