Come... wash my bones... Let the water taste of salt and surrender. With you, I am strong, but I choose to be weak... the kind of weak that remembers the weight of your breath on my skin. Wash my bones with bleach... strip me of every trace that doesn’t carry your scent. I want to be left alone with my own sins... to bathe in the silence where your name still lingers like fever.

My desire was louder than my reason... it spoke in the language of skin, of hunger, of soft destruction. It was a prayer that never needed saving... a devotion that burned gently, like fire learning how to love. Even if you burn me down, you’ll still taste my love in the smoke you inhale... it will slide down your throat, live in your lungs, and bloom in the dark behind your ribs.

Every time I reach for you, it feels like loving absence itself... the kind that fills rather than empties... the kind that stays. Love without effort is pretend... and ours, love, was everything real that darkness ever promised and killed in the end....

An1, 2025