Burning Love

It’s not always roses.
Not always soft hands and easy mornings.
Some days, it’s weather.
Real weather.
The kind that howls at the windows
and dares you to stay standing.

But I do.
We do.
We are firewood soaked in stormwater
that still catches flame.
We are stubborn sparks
refusing to die
no matter how long the dark lasts.

You don’t just warm me--
you ignite me.
Every breath we share
is a kindling prayer.
Every kiss, a match struck
on the side of survival.

We do not ask the world to be gentle.
We only ask
for a place to burn
without shame.

This love--
this sacred, smoldering,
middle-of-winter kind of love--
doesn’t flicker.
It endures.
It glows when the wind tries to steal it.
It laughs when the frost bites.
It holds on.
Even when everything else lets go.
​

Fac ut pluat in faciem meam, iterum atque iterum,
o mi marite, aeterne meus, anima mea gemina