i did not fall in love with her. falling implies gravity, and gravity is a law, and she is lawless.

i could call her “lover,”
but that feels like naming a wildfire
“a spark,”
like calling the sun
“a lamp that forgot how to turn off.”

lover is what you say when you’re trying
to keep your throat from trembling,
when your hands are shaking,
trying to hold back the avalanche
she’s already set loose in your ribcage.

lover is too small a word
for the way she dismantles my skin
and builds me back into a man
with a spine made of lightning.

you don’t call the first sip of whiskey
on a winter night
just “a drink.”

you don’t call the hand
that rips the heavens open
just “a touch.”

you don’t call the altar where you kneel
and finally remember your own god
just “a body.”

she doesn’t walk into rooms;
she wrecks them.

doesn’t speak;
she conjures.

her voice isn’t a sound,
it’s the kind of spell
you find carved into ancient stone.

and when she says my name,
it feels like i’m being named
for the very first time.

how do you introduce someone
who makes your whole body
forget gravity?
who laughs, and it sounds
like a lock breaking
inside your soul?

you don’t introduce her.
you don’t try to shrink her into syllables
or pin her down with language.
you let her exist.
unchained.
untamed.
undeniable.

so when people ask,
“who is she to you?”
i smile.
because there is no answer
that will not leave me wrecked.
because there is no way to describe
how the first time we kissed,
the ground beneath me collapsed
and i still haven’t bothered
to find my footing.

she isn’t my girlfriend.
she’s a religion.
the reason i don’t ask
for heaven anymore
because i’ve already been touched by god.

she is the one
who cannot be explained,
only experienced.

this is your invitation
to experience her.
33 times.
with trembling hands
and an open mouth.
preorder baptized by her touch.
signed copies ship end of june.