With the night comes darkness, but also stars. And isn’t that the trick? The poison sugar at the rim of the glass. You kiss me like a blade soft enough to beg for, and I let you. Every time.

They warned me about you. That you were the kind of disaster to light cigarettes in the rain, to write love letters to your own shadow and send them unsigned. But I swore I’d never need saving.

I watch the night eat itself in your eyes, dark enough to make a god question His decision to leave us this ruin called desire. You whisper my name like a bruise you can’t stop pressing on. Do you know how long I’ve waited to hear myself sound like something someone might miss?

Every touch is a debt we can’t repay. Every kiss an apology that neither of us means.

I never said I wanted forever, only the falling. The breaking. The gravity of it. And you—oh, you— you’re the kind of black hole that makes even light want to die a little slower.

I tell myself I’ll leave tomorrow, but tomorrow is a thing you’ve burned out of me. You’ve replaced the future with nights like this, where the darkness doesn’t just come— it begs to stay.

And the stars? The stars are only scars. But they’re ours.