My knees hit the cathedral floor.
And my lips claim sanctuary.
But my heart? It trembles.
Marble. More comfortable than the altar.
Old battles new.
I want to want. I want to want you.
But my throat? It burns.
Raw. It echoes. “Do you hear?”
And my insides?
Millions of molecules playing bumper cars.
Loud. Unstable. I shudder.
And beg. “Still. Please. Be still.”
You whisper. “Stilled. Not still.”
I parse.
Subject. You. Object. Me. Metamorphosis.
Hands overturn. Cold-pressed.
Movement. Somehow.
Stilled by your friction.
I’ll live by the principles I held when I was sane.
Not mad.
As I am now.
Waiting.
In the meantime, unfold me,
Ivory—born through burgundy,
Blood that bears snow.
New battles old.
I want to want. I want to want you.
Waiting.
