to my piece of peace.

“I like the weight of you on my body.”

light /līt/noun1. the delicate way in which your lips curl upwards; and the crinkles around your eyes which cannot help but to grin in sheer, genuine joy; and your hair frames your face, cascading down your shoulders to kiss your skin; and the whole of the sky is trapped in two irises, the bottom of the sea confined in two pupils. 2. a genuine love that illuminates so brightly that some cannot bear to look in its direction, but those who do will feel its warmth wrap around them in the fondest embrace.

I am not the first person you loved. You are not the first person I looked at with a mouthful of forevers. We have both known loss like the sharp edges of a knife. We have both lived with lips more scar tissue than skin. Our love came unannounced in the middle of the night. Our love came when we’d given up on asking love to come. I think that has to be part of its miracle. This is how we heal. I will kiss you like forgiveness. You will hold me like I’m hope. Our arms will bandage and we will press promises between us like flowers in a book. I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat on your skin. I will write novels to the scar of your nose. I will write a dictionary of all the words I have used trying to describe the way it feels to have finally, finally found you. And I will not be afraid of your scars. I know sometimes it’s still hard to let me see you in all your cracked perfection, but please know: whether it’s the days you burn more brilliant than the sun or the nights you collapse into my lap your body broken into a thousand questions, you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I will love you when you are a still day. I will love you when you are a hurricane.

Your lips are the only ones I want to feel against mine when I wake up at 3am in the morning, searching for comfort by someone who isn’t myself.

“I only want two things in this world. I want you. And I want us.”