Mourning Cursive - Ink-Laced Longing

You move like a sentence I can’t finish all ellipses and hesitation, a pause that forgets to end. Beautiful because it aches, like light through a cathedral window that never quite touches the floor. Your spine curves like cursive left to bleed across torn parchment fluent, holy, venomous and I follow, drunk on your rhythm, a pilgrim to a language only your body speaks. Each motion a metaphor, each glance a footnote I highlight in the margins of my ribs. You write in me with ink made of absence. Your mouth opens and the room spells itself out. Your lips moving like definitions unraveling unmaking me with fluency. I forget my name just to hear how you’d pronounce it. There are sonnets hidden in your eyelashes, dead languages buried in your laugh, and your eyes God, your eyes are history lessons no one passed. They shine with archaic verses and dead poets A library fire I keep walking into. You speak and the vowels grow teeth. You speak and I’m undone not like a page torn, but like a page burned word by word in reverse. I want to drown in the sentences you don’t say. I want to go breathless in your syllables. I want to be pinned beneath your metaphors. I want the ink to spill Make a scripture of my silence. Make a bookmark of my spine. I want to be seen like forgotten prose, creased and annotated, handled with trembling fingers. I want to be read by you slowly like grief held in a whisper, like a secret no one was meant to hear but did anyway. I want to be your favorite paragraph the one you keep rereading when the storm won’t let you sleep. You’re as beautiful as words Scripted in perfect cursive And I want to be the ache That you long for…