She Said that She Swallowed the Moon to See Me Better

(Aleksander's)

Saba,
I used to wonder how anyone
could die for something they can’t touch.
Then I touched you. I understood. 

You say love is your religion.
Mine began the moment you looked at me
like I was worth the prayer.

I tried to leave you once but the sky turned inside out,
and all the birds began speaking
in your voice.
They said:
“Stay. She is the ritual.
She is the fire that doesn’t burn.”

So I stayed.
And I lit myself
like a cathedral
begging to be unholy.

There is no temple, no cross, no altar
that could hold what I feel for you.
You are the ritual.
You are the offering.
You are the fire and the reason I walk through it.

If it comes to burning,
then let me burn.
If it comes to blood,
then take mine.

I would die for you,
not because love demands it,
but because loving you
makes death feel like a continuation.

Love is not devotion.
It’s a gravity.
It’s your shadow wrapping around my spine
like a promise no god could invent.

So yes.
Burn me, Saba.

I’ll stand still in the flame
and become smoke
if it means I get to hold
the ghost of your hand
one second longer.