Before you, I was a language
with no alphabet—
just sounds against teeth,
vague as wind against glass.

But you arrived
like a season that refuses to leave,
and suddenly I had vocabulary:
the precise geometry of your collarbone,
the longitude of your spine,
the way your laughter
splits the air like light
through a prism I didn’t know
was hanging there.

I have memorized you
not like a poem learned by rote,
but like a map I consult
when I am lost inside myself.
Your hip, the harbor.
Your mouth, the meridian.
The small of your back—
uncharted territory
I would spend lifetimes exploring.

They say the heart is a muscle.
Yours has made mine athletic,
capable of feats
I never trained for:
holding the weight of wanting you
without trembling,
the endurance of loving you
without rest.

I do not know what happens after this.
But I know that every atom in my body
was forged in some forgotten star,
and I like to imagine that star
burned exactly this way—
not with destruction,
but with the impossible heat
of becoming something new.

So take my hand.
Let them say what they will
about gravity, about falling.
We are not falling.
We are arriving—
and I have built you a home
in the center of everything.