Your face is a fevered psalm I recite beneath the moon-split sheets—cheekbones catching dusk like twin alters, eyes molten with the quiet pain of ruined summers. Your mouth, a wine-dark wound I press to my own, bleeds secrets with every breath. The bridge of your nose—sharp, cruel, perfect—cuts me open again, again. I kiss the corner where smiles hesitate, where longing festers. You look at me like confession, like absolution dressed in sin. Your face is a storm I begged to drown in. And still, I beg. Still, I drown. Still, I call it love.