you laid there,
reading from your torn manuscript,
and the room disappeared.
time paused.
my pulse forgot its rhythm.
your words didn’t just land
they tethered,
wrapped themselves around my soul
like vines soaked in gasoline,
waiting for a match.
you didn’t read like a lover.
you read like a prophet.
your voice cracked in all the right places,
spilling beauty and sorrow
like you’d been carrying it too long.
each syllable etched into me,
somewhere soft,
somewhere fatal.
i kissed your neck,
not to claim you
but to thank you
for the brief mercy
of being near your fire.
and still, i knew.
i knew you were not mine.
that love like this
was never built to last.
you were a celestial visitor,
the kind that blesses the broken
with one holy moment
then vanishes before dawn.
you gave me a sliver of the infinite,
then closed the book,
took your voice,
and left me
holding the echo.
i will carry it
that sound,
that night,
that ache
like a soul branded
by something
too beautiful
to survive.