I dont know how to write love without making it feel like weather—as if it arrives already too large for the body it chooses.
But you are here.
And that changes the grammar of everything.
Because suddenly it is not orbit, not ache, not the long theology of distance I used to mistake for devotion—
it is touch.
It is the strange correction of gravity when it realizes it does not have to wound to be real.
You stand in my life like a second sun that learned restraint,not less powerful for it, only deliberate in the way it chooses not to end me.
And I—
I am still what I was before you, still made of repetition and excess, still carrying the old language of storms in my mouth—
but now it has somewhere to go.
Now it lands.
Now it is answered.
If love is a system, then you are the variable I was never designed to stabilize around,and still my whole structure is learning your shape without collapse.
It should not work.
That is the first truth.
And yet it does.
Not cleanly. Not gently.
But insistently, like life insisting on breath even when it remembers drowning.
I love you in the way broken laws continue operating after they are proven impossible—in the way fire behaves when it discovers it is allowed to warm instead of destroy.
There is still myth in it.
There is still ruin in the edges of it.
But it is no longer solitary ruin.
It is shared terrain.
And when I reach for you, it is not prayer anymore—it is recognition.
As if somewhere in the earliest architecture of everything, before language, before consequence, before even the idea of separation, something already decided:
this,
us,
still us.
And if I speak it like a sonnet, it is only because I need a shape that can hold the fact that you are here,
without turning you into metaphor too large to survive.
So I keep it simple in the only way I know how:
You exist,
You stay
And in that staying, I learn what it means to no longer be alone in the language of being alive.