it's after midnight when she knocks on your door.

you sit at the foot of the bed, shoulder to shoulder, drinking expensive italian wine out of cheap hotel mugs. shrouded in the unspoken magic of twisting wall shadows and stolen hours, you cast your secrets like ancient spells until every hollow inch between you spills over with them. they roll off the corner of her mouth and onto your tongue in gauzy, violet blooms.

your heart is a chalice, the consecrated ace of cups runneth over like a bleeding watercolor across the oversaturated verona sky. the rising sun watches with envious amber eyes as she laughs against your lips, again and again, each sweeter and more sacred than a honeyed sunday prayer.

the bottle between you is empty now. the summoning circle has been wiped clean by daylight's hand. you sit in the remnants of a broken ritual and wonder if you dreamt it up, if you can will a dream to return night after night.

your heart is a chalice, half full in the moonlight, half empty at dawn.

he reminds you of home when you're a trespasser in a hazy alien city.

you come together in hurried moments and haphazard angles, mouths against teeth, skin against skin, cursing god in between each other's shoulderblades. he wears his lust like lightning, razor sharp and impossible to capture, but you swear you'll break every bottle trying.

your heart is a storm that thunders for him through every muscle and synapse, an electric, nebulous sky ready to burst from your core.

you want him to ache with it. he doesn't. you want to watch the sky tear open and drown in the downpour with him. the flood never comes. you gaze into his eyes as the clouds roll in, but you make sure they're watching whenever you move closer to her, lean into her laughter, whisper against her jaw.

your heart is a storm, brewing in mirth, mercy all dried up.

you've known each other for years, but not like this.

this is the chill of january up your spine and the heat of her breath along your neck and no promises to each other, not yet. you want to forget what makes you hurt and something more dangerous always does.

your heart is a moth and she is a fire burning through the glass, teasing you closer and closer until you're voraciously beating your wings against the window pane, hungry and desperate to drown in her light. your wings, her lips, they sing the same frenetic melody, and you can live like this. you can die like this.

and you do. in the end, she swallows you whole like the candle's flame always does. in the end, you're oxidized ash waiting to be carried by the waning winter wind.

your heart is a moth, the renowned king of its own self-destruction.

in the eye of a storm, she is your blasphemy and your salvation.

she learns you like a map, connecting every freckle and flaw, every detriment and detail. you unravel for her—because of her—under her fingers, against her mouth, between her legs, within her arms. and every time she stitches you back together, burying pieces of herself, planting memories and promises into your skin and lips. your internal world becomes a masterpiece of her grand design. her name thrums through your veins. her fingers orchestrate every reverberation in your ribcage.

your heart is the sea, crashing over and over, feral and infinite for only her. she is the north star of all the nights you've ever lived, the bright hand willing you through the endless dark, a holy fixed point that extinguishes every other diamond flickering in the peripheral. you love her, and she is the only way home you've ever known.

even when she fucks someone else, she shines overheard. even as you unravel outside of her reach, her hook still pierces your acrid, wounded heart and keeps pulling.

your heart is the sea, and she is the shoreline. helplessly and unceasingly, you're always borne back.