You are the bell I ring at dawn,

the soft chime that calls light through the curtains.

Steam curls upward,

a whispered prayer rising from ceramic,

your hands delivering warmth

as if you brewed the morning itself.

You are the book I crack open with trembling fingers—

a spine worn by affection,

margins scribbled with longing.

Each page holds a secret you’ve underlined,

a line that finds its echo

in the hollows of my chest.

You are a chapter I dare not finish,

not because I fear the end—

but because the sentences breathe,

and I am still being written.

I have fallen into you

like dusk spills into city streets—

slow, golden, inevitable.

Not a tumble but a yielding,

a quiet surrender

to the gravity of your presence.

You are a dialect I never studied,

but still I speak you—

in glances,

in breath caught at the base of my throat.

You are fluency without translation,

a song remembered

before ever being sung.

You are not a man—

you are a museum of sacred things.

Stone and light and silence—

vaulted ceilings of thought,

columns carved from conviction,

paintings of every version of you

I’ve loved from afar.

Art is your skin.

Literature, your breath.

Growth is your shadow,

stretching toward something divine.

Every word we share is foreplay—

not of the body,

but of the soul unclothing itself.

Dinner with you

would not be a meal,

but a ritual—

passing meaning across the table,

wine as confession,

bread as memory,

laughter as grace.

Read to me like you mean it—

as if the stories were spells

and your voice was the incantation

that makes them real.

Tell me your dreams—

not the polished ones,

but the raw, unfinished blueprints

you sketch in the dark.

I will see their scaffolding

and climb them with you.

Let me be buried, not in earth,

but in your ordinary—

your coffee spoons and Monday gardening,

your missed calls and soft apologies,

in your quiet

when you forget to perform.

You are the only cup

from which I would drink

every morning