Published by: Reiven Presbetero
Date Published: January 16, 2026
Time Published: 6:45AM
Love me only if you have the stomach for it,
because I do not love gently.
I love in a way that swallows moments whole,
that pulls you in too close,
until the space between us forgets its name.
Step closer if you can survive the hunger—
the way my hands linger too long,
the way I memorize the sound of your breathing,
the way wanting you
feels like pressure under the ribs.
My kind of love does not ask permission.
It gathers your laughter like heat,
your warmth like a second skin,
your quiet like something fragile I keep awake at night,
pressed to my chest when the room goes dark.
If you stay, understand this truth:
to hold me is to misplace yourself slowly,
to leave fingerprints where I needed you,
to wake one day carrying my ache
as if it were always yours.
So stay only if you’re willing
to be worn down by devotion—
not by teeth, not by violence,
but by a heart that holds too tightly
and never learns how to let go.
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