I vow

I’m so into you I turned “in to you” into a residence, now every room in me remembers your name like scripture in a cathedral stone; so into you I read your silence like an interview, where every pause is an answer and every answer asks what part of love is flesh, what part is soul. I’m so into you my interest gathers interest, compound as confession, till my heart becomes a bank of vows and you the treasure I can never overdraw nor own. I’m so into you I fell inward, not forward; this ain’t a crash but a chamber, a descent so deep it makes the ocean look like surface tension on a tear not yet known. I’m so into you that “us” is no longer grammar but alchemy, for when I put “I” into “you,” the lonely vowel learns harmony and stands no more alone. I’m so into you that instinct sounds like “in-stink” when I’m without you, because even my finest hours rot at the edges if your touch ain’t there to make them bloom. I’m so into you I entered your orbit and found my own axis corrected; now the world don’t spin me, it translates me, and all my wandering learns the discipline of moon. I’m so into you the phrase became a prophecy: I’m in, to you, through you, toward you, until the preposition turns pilgrimage and every road I walk wears your perfume. I’m so into you I take “into” literal—like a locksmith of longing, I fit my truth in the shape of your trust, yet never trespass, because love ain’t breaking in, it’s being invited into the room. I’m so into you I study your eyes like a philosopher studies death: not to conquer the mystery, but to be humbled by the fact that the answer is beautiful and still makes no boast to be consumed. I’m so into you that “mine” feels minor and “ours” feels orchestral; possession is a poor man’s language, but devotion conducts what ownership only assumes. I’m so into you I hear “two” inside “into,” and there’s the riddle—how can I enter you without erasing me, and how can we be two without dividing the bloom? So I love you like a sonnet loves its wound, with a measured ache, where each line breaks to keep from breaking, and every break becomes the proof that beauty survives its ruin. I’m so into you I became a miner of meanings, digging through your laughter for light, through your grief for gems, through your guarded places for the gospel buried under the bruise. I’m so into you that even my envy envies the air that gets to hold you longer; I am jealous of sleeves, of pillows, of the mirror that receives your morning before I do. I’m so into you that sin and syntax start to look alike, because one wrong touch can damn a sentence, but your name in my mouth makes even trembling sound true. I’m so into you I stopped asking whether love is blind, and asked instead whether sight was ever worthy until it learned to behold another person without trying to reduce. I’m so into you that your green shorts became green lights, and ever since, my soul’s been driving through red flags slower, learning that desire need not speed to prove. I’m so into you I found the “you” inside “youth,” and mourned the boy I was before your presence made a man of my wreckage and called that baptism growth, not bruise. I’m so into you I turned intuition into “in-to-you-ition,” a tuition paid in ego, where every lesson costs my pride and yet makes me richer in the only currency death cannot remove. I’m so into you that heaven feels less like a place above and more like a practice below—two flawed hearts telling the truth so thoroughly that even their scars begin to soothe. I’m so into you that if time is a thief, then let it rob me in your company, because an hour with you is interest on eternity, and a life without you is a fortune with no use. And here’s the thought that haunts me sweetest: maybe love is not finding someone I can live with, but meeting the one whose absence turns survival into a technicality, and whose presence makes being alive feel like finally being introduced.