She once told me,
I talk excessively, too much, out of proportion
but they are inanimate objects
like I dive in ocean and
leave out the part about the sunken ship
I swim in its lower compartment often
scrap through the broken wooden pieces with splinters
find the dice, find the rock bottom core
and through the moments as I stead my breath underwater
to go up again into the sun
I dream of the time
I was seven and you told me
about those skies.

She later told me,
I only talk about the sunken ship
with her
when I'm down on the floor
either laughing at a unfunny joke
or sobbing till I'm bleeding
out of every plank that made its way to my stomach
I hold her by the wrist
I lead her through the same chambers
I've memorized the bugs on each side
this and this and that and that
I become the unnamed ghost by the tomb of the Aristos Achaion talking to Thetis
I tell her
I tell her every part of the swollen wound
every cracked edge
every dark distress
every baptism wasted
every scream that reckoned the room
this and this and that
My spine was made of
memories
and hauntings
of defiant arrogance
and childlike innocence

perhaps,
not every fire is worth getting
warmed by
only the slow burn flames
that feels like a
mother's gentle palm
is worth getting
warmed by
she felt like that.

She feels like love
the only genuine
pure superficial
love
I don't have to weigh
what I give and what not
I'm simply enough.

She's the only love
who loves me
as delicately as I love her.