The Altar of Habit
You are the hearth, the holy, and the known,
The quiet kingdom that we built alone.
Your kiss is bread—it sustains my very life,
The gentle title of "husband" or of "wife."
I rest my head upon your steady chest,
And hate the heart that will not let me rest.
For even as I swear my soul is true,
I am a hollow shell when held by you.
The Fevered Ghost
Then there is him—a wildfire in the veins,
The sudden snap of long-forgotten chains.
He doesn’t offer peace; he offers breath,
A frantic dance upon the edge of death.
In candle-lighted rooms where we shouldn’t be,
He unearths the wild, screaming parts of me.
I love him with a desperate, starving grace,
Searching for his shadow in your face.
The Tragic Sum
I am a traitor in a house of gold,
Selling the warmth to shiver in the cold.
I pull your blankets tight around my skin,
While tasting him—the sweet, metallic sin.
Two loves, one heart, a tether torn in two,
I’m breaking him to stay alive with you.
But in the dark, the math begins to bleed:
I have everything, yet he is all I need.
The Final Frame
The clock ticks out a rhythm of deceit,
As I walk the line where guilt and longing meet.
Me: The architect of a beautiful lie.
You: The sun in a clear, unsuspecting sky.
Him: The moon that pulls my tides astray.
I am the storm that will wash us all away.
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