When we ask for that same love to repeat,
we are not asking for the dead to come back.
We know better.
We are asking the world
to prove it was not a one-time mercy.
We are asking the sky
to open the same door twice.
We are asking another voice,
another hand,
another ordinary morning
to carry even a trace
of what once saved us.
Because love like that changes the body.
It teaches the ribs
what shelter feels like.
It teaches the nervous system
the impossible language of safety.
And when it is gone,
we do not merely miss a person.
We miss who we were
inside that love.
We miss the version of ourselves
who did not have to stand guard
at every window.
Who could laugh from the belly.
Who could sleep through the night.
Who could believe, for five damn minutes,
that life had finally stopped hunting us.
So when we ask for that same love to repeat,
we are not being foolish.
We are being human.
We are standing in the ruins
with our hands still open,
saying . . .
I know the dead don’t answer.
But surely love does.
Surely love,
having found me once,
remembers the way.
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