We Love. We Fall. We Pick Up the Pieces of This World.

Mighty, I crawl out of bed — dizzy, yet content,

his arms still pressed against my back.

I have been loved. I have been kind.

For once, I have.

I speak to my feelings differently now —

I do not condemn them,

though I still feel the ache

lodged in the back of his throat,

echoing through me.

I linger there,

seeing myself through him.

I wonder. I stay.

The days have softened

the edges of my worry,

though time has thinned

the warmth of what I once called glory.

Still, I doubt. Still, I reach —

yet I am willing now

to step into the open.

I raise a glass to discontent,

because we know —

we have always known —

how regret settles in the body.

Something shifts —

a quiet alchemy —

a wanting to live, to feel

the trembling world beneath our feet.

And still,

we know:

the seasons turn,

but we do not move forward

without carrying

the mist of yesterday.

Morning light finds me gently.

My thumbs still hum

with a lingering dizziness.