She says, 
“I wish you could see me at my brightest.” 
But love— 
I met you in the ruins, 
and I swear, 
even your ashes glowed. 
 
You ask if you deserve these words, 
as though devotion were a thing to be earned 
instead of something I bled willingly— 
ink, soul and starlight, 
dragged from the marrow 
to spell your name in reverence. 
 
You were fire-burned, 
soul-scabbed, 
eyes like war-torn altars 
and I— 
I fell to my knees anyway. 
 
You want to give me the sun, 
but I have seen its envy. 
The stars? 
I would rip them from their heavens 
just to return the shimmer 
you lost in the dark. 
 
You called yourself 
a devil-woman, 
and I smiled 
like a sinner watching angels fall. 
 
Yes— 
you’re all thorns and temptation, 
rage and soft wreckage, 
but do you not know? 
Even Lucifer was once the Morning Star, 
and I would follow your light 
through hell 
and back again. 
 
You are grace wrapped in fury, 
the kind of storm that leaves me kneeling, 
kissed by lightning, 
whispering prayers in your name 
as though your laughter could resurrect me. 
 
And I— 
I’m not leaving. 
 
Not when your darkness 
made my heart a cathedral, 
not when your voice 
taught my ghosts how to sing. 
 
I will always be near— 
in breath, in spirit, 
in the hush between your sobs 
and the sacred silence that follows. 
 
You deserve these words, 
and a thousand more. 
You deserve the cosmos carved into lullabies, 
the moon weeping its light into your palms. 
 
You— 
with your shadows and softness, 
your fierce, aching heart— 
are the most worthy thing 
I’ve ever written for. 
 
Even if the sky falls black, 
I’ll still call your name 
a holy thing.