By Lorena Tellez

I take you — my wedded wife —
to have, to hold,
to rip open my ribcage and nest inside,
to ruin me sweetly.

It started quiet, a hum in the ribs,
then a full-body mind-numbing possession.
Thoughts dissolving into white noise, vision tinted red,

a knot behind each sternum —
pulled tight, tighter — snap.

Time thins in the breath between us.
Air goes electric, crackling —
the kind of spark that could destroy worlds.
The earth sings in tune,
holy, hectic, deafening.
Universes collapse in our chests.

This isn’t just love; it’s cosmic vandalism:
gravity wearing lip gloss,
an object in motion without friction,
impending, earth-shattering ignition.

I dream of you with exhausting excitement,
build a life with you in REM cycles.

Futures click into place like fate:
matching mugs, a cat,
your hair tangled in the drain and me feigning annoyance
while secretly thrilled it means you were here.
Hopeless, honeyed,
domestic, delirious —
mundanity turned manic.

They say love is a choice,
but you arrived like instinct.
A fever that never breaks,
a heartbeat that never asks permission.
Not decision, but recognition.

Kiss me again.
Forget which mouth is mine.
Know me so well that when you forget your name,
mine slips out instead.
I want your fingerprints on my soul.
Let’s burn loud and bright and joyful.
Let the sun be jealous.
Let wanting stay wild.

Let time not weather it down,
the sensation pulsing deep.
Let routine never tame it.
Not a promise, not a commitment —
god forbid, not a habit.

No, a never-satiated flame,
a forever that refuses to sleep,
a desire so ingrained
it’s impossible to tell where it ends
and you begin.

Across lifetimes, through the deaths between them,
until the concept of I is irrelevant
and only us remains.

From this day forward,
this is my solemn vow:
For better, for worse,
for every lifetime and the spaces between,
till death do us part.

And even then,
come find me. ■