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salt and apples

            Everyone warns you about the fire – but nobody tells you about the rain. Every single stolen moment is an act of war, a meeting place where lightning challenges thunder and vice versa. We are always seeking a balance, carving out a space somewhere between safety and destruction. This is what love looks like, when you place it in the middle of a hurricane. This is what desire looks like when you let it loose. These matches are mine, darling. The catch is I’m already burning – I’ve always been burning. There’s nothing left to do but greet the rain.

            Call it an opportunity. Call it release. But don’t call it anything less than miracle. I know how to revel in the quiet just as well as anybody, but I much prefer the chaos of two bodies, the way your breath catches, and the passionate vulnerability we’ve conjured.

            Love is a crossroads. I’ve always been here, choosing and chosen. I’ve left offerings in all directions. I’ve tasted both salt and apples. I’ve followed the crow. I’ve been companion to the wind. I’ve gone barefoot in the grass. This is where we are now, but not where we will always be. These candles are lit, even as the rain comes. I have lit them for you.

            O ushalin zhala sar o kam mangela. (The shadow moves as the sun commands.)

            Nashti zhas vorta po drom o bango. (You cannot walk straight where the road is bent.)

            May mishto phabol o kasht o chordano. (Stolen wood burns better for being stolen.)

            Kaski san? (Whose are you?)

            Mine.

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