Only You.

Only you—

could make absence feel inhabited, as though emptiness itself had learned your shape.

Only you—

could turn my pulse into percussion, my restraint into ruin, my silence into something dangerously awake.

It’s not one heart, 

but two halves misfiring beneath a sky too small to contain what we became. 

You were the match, 

the oxygen, 

the arson and 

the aftermath—

and I, too willing to be the flame.

Only you—

with your gravity disguised as gentleness, 

your mouth made of prophecy and trouble. 

You touched me once and every locked room in me forgot its combination.

I carried your name like contraband beneath my ribs, 

smuggled it through sleepless nights, through want, 

through worship, 

through all the ways desire tries to masquerade as fate.

Only you—

could make me mistake surrender for salvation. 

Could make a bruise feel holy, 

a risk feel written, 

a downfall feel deserved.

And still, after the wreckage, 

after the fever broke, 

after reason returned with blood on its hands—

I would know you in any lifetime by the way my soul leans toward its own undoing.

Only you.