I don’t count steps, days, or cities. All of it — empty noise.

I’m just a moment.
Blinding. Bold. Predatory.
I don’t bow to memory, body, or name.
I’m a thirst that breaks the tongue.

You know what it was.
Not “maybe.” Not “almost.” Not “something like.”
It was.
You felt it — the madness between you and me, the kind that never dims. Never.

They’ll say:
“Don’t love so fiercely. Don’t tear so sharply. Don’t live so quietly.”

And I laugh.

Because I’m telling you:
“Love ain’t comfort. It’s not a warm hand on your forehead. It’s not that cheap, tacky knockoff they peddle on street corners and in shitty melodramas.”

Love is a rupture.
It’s ripping yourself out of your skin, stepping beyond names, consciousness, and habits. Raw nerve.

You say:
“What if it’s not allowed?”

I say:
“What if it’s exactly what’s needed?”

What if meaning isn’t logic but a spark of revelation?
What if meaning is in one flash, one look through the dark, in this… wild, impossible thing?