XXVII

I would have adored you on a Sunday
without storms,
without clocks,
without history.
With salt-stained hands
and a heart still free of bargains.

I would have loved you
in a whisper,
so I wouldn’t wake my demons.

I wouldn’t have written you verses.
I would have whispered them in your ear,
like a secret curse
that can’t help but sound tender.

I would have loved you without fear,
like someone who knows
it will hurt anyway.

Because for once,
love wasn’t war.
It was rest — before unleashing hell.