it's her voice when she picks up at 2 am it's puffy blankets and your arms around my waist as our bodies melt into a different world a better one when the heaviness of her breath becomes my most sacred lullaby one where we don't belong anywhere, but everywhere it's the first breath after an anxiety attack eyes closed. clear. no fuzziness. nothing extra.
and the calmness that halos over my chest as my heart beats to a new melody home is where I am and where I am not so where do I go? where the ugliness of love rings truest in its utter beauty because to love is not to idealize perfection but perhaps to wallow in the tale that home is where the heart is and that despite it all, they are imperfect in the most exquisite of ways because I am, too but she picks up anyways.