She is the fire I walk into barefoot,
the match I strike with my teeth,
the beautiful ruin I would choose
a thousand times over safe and sleeping.
Her laugh—
god, her laugh—
cracks the world like a bottle against a wall,
and I want to be the mess,
the spilled light,
the golden chaos pooling at her feet.
I have loved carefully before.
With her, I love like falling downstairs:
no plan, no grace,
just velocity and trust,
just the bruise of yes and more and now.
She is reckless with my heart,
and I am reckless giving it—
two fools in a burning car,
grinning, shifting gears,
driving straight into the sun
because the sunset is too slow,
because forever is too short to wait.
If they ask how I went,
tell them: smiling.
Tell them: her.
Tell them I finally learned
that love is not survival—
it is the willing flame,
the open palm,
the beautiful, impossible choice
to be destroyed
and call it alive.