After the Last Word

When I set out to write a love poem, I imagine you as the crack before thunder finds its voice, your breath breaking the laws of gravity between us. You are no angel— but something that makes clocks forget their purpose, your pulse humming morse code beneath my skin. The coffee cup you leave steaming near the sink outlasts your absence by exactly seven minutes. I count them. Each one spills warmth across the ordinary morning. Your eyes—what do they hold? Storm systems, yes. Tidal equations, yes. But also the way morning light hesitates before touching the floor. I do not write upon your body. Your body rewrites the periodic table, each scar a new element burning softly on your skin. My lips memorize this map of you, tracing blueprints in warmth only I can read, each curve a secret language written in warmth and time. When you laugh, the room forgets its corners, light bends, and I see why maps once ended with dragons. You are not a poem— you are the silence after lightning, when the world holds its breath, waiting to be named again, your name humming beneath mine, waiting for the next word that changes everything.