There are loves that arrive loudly,
with fireworks and slammed doors,
with trembling hands and promises
that dissolve by morning.
this was born before language.
Before desire had a name.
Before I understood loneliness
or the terrible shape of growing older.
There was only the pulse.
A rhythm living beneath my ribs
that never once abandoned me.
The first time cold metal touched my skin,
so this is what holiness feels like.
The stethoscope against my chest,
and suddenly my body was no longer silent.
Only the wet thunder of survival.
The most honest thing I have ever heard.
as if they float somewhere distant,
ethereal and untouchable.
inside muscle and electricity,
inside breath dragged deep into aching lungs.
I have spent years listening.
To the quickened rhythm of longing.
To skipped beats in the dark.
To the beautiful violence of panic and desire.
To the slow settling hush
when I finally feel safe enough
The inhale that opens me.
The exhale that empties me clean.
The fragile rise of my chest at 3 a.m.
There were years when everything changed.
Versions of myself I barely recognize now.
Never the pulse waiting faithfully beneath my fingertips.
Never the breath returning after every sorrow.
Never the heart, stubborn and glowing in the dark,
beating through every ruin like a promise.
I do not want perfection.
I want the racing heartbeat beneath cold metal.
I want the trembling inhale.
I want the ache, the pressure, the rhythm.
Because to be listened to—
is the closest thing to love
