fracture

I love you, however—
sometimes, your words are crows, picking clean
what little softness I’ve kept.

I love you, and I accept
your anger, your sorrow,
the way your hands tremble
when you try not to break me.

I sigh in grief and devotion— purple blooms on pale skin, the scent of sweat and blood lingering between us.

I feel the weight of both tenderness and ruin pressing against my chest. Love tastes like iron and apple whiskey.

I long to cup your face in my hands
and count every line of ink on your skin like a map,
leading me closer, always, closer
to you.

Even here, wrapped goose-feather comforters and hush,
love is not always gentle.

It is the slow ache of holding
what the world says I cannot,
and I would hold you forever.