R uin the script of fate; I choose you, awake and willing. O nly in your eyes do borders fall and the night learns our names. M y ribs open like windows when your quiet enters the room. A nd I promise no temples—only a home where breath is allowed. N othing in you needs saving; love is not a siren, it is steady hands. T ake these ordinary hours; let us keep them exact and unruled. I listen to your pulse like a compass that refuses to lie. C ity lights stand still when your laugh breaks the grid. L et us be honest: work and tenderness are the same fire here. O n doubtful nights, I will choose you again, without witness. V ows without altars—just hands learning the map of each other. E ven the dark trusts us to carry a small, stubborn flame. P romise me questions, not a cage; keep the door open, the table set. O pen roads mean little unless our feet argue them into truth. E very revolt worth keeping begins as care at the smallest scale. M y heart is no throne; ...
Writing for self-therapy