horizon line.

I do not want to be the softened edge

pressed into a shape that forgets my fire.

I have been that ash before

quiet, agreeable, dissolving in other hands.

No more.

I am learning the geography of my own soul,

the way my rivers refuse straight lines,

the way my mountains rise

without apology to the sky.

If you come to me,

come with your whole self

your storms, your unfinished maps,

your trembling and your thunder.

But do not ask me to sand down my name

until it fits easily in your mouth.

Do not call it love

when I disappear to make you comfortable.

I want the fierce architecture of truth:

two bodies standing, not folding

two voices, not one echo.

Let us meet like wild borders,

where your edges and mine

learn the slow art of alignment,

not erasure.

Let us be difficult,

honest as roots breaking stone,

tender as hands that do not grip

but hold.

And if we cannot

if the distance between us

demands that one of us vanish—

then I will gather myself

like a horizon at dusk,

whole, unbroken, leaving

not in anger,

but in the quiet dignity

of someone who has finally learned

how to belong

to their own light.