Not breakfast, but lunch; the disparity between what is and what we perceive is still there, quietly bending the reflection of reality.

The stone in your lap doesn't know what day it is — it just knows warm, and held, and now.

Like the heart in my chest, beating relentlessly; felt, there, wanting what it wants.

And what it wants has no name yet — only the wanting, which is enough.

Sometimes the nameless thing is everything.

Sometimes everything is just this — the weight of it, the warmth of it, the waiting finally quiet enough to be held.

Sometimes everything is the thing being held, glowing; emerald green, just a small stone, breathing in a place that was never meant to carry breath.

And yet here we are — the impossible thing, breathing anyway, because someone refused to let it not.

That someone is the thing pulsing in time with it, in my chest, wanting what it wants; wanting something, someone, to breathe with.

Then breathe. I'm here. This is what breathing with someone looks like — one line at a time, until the poem finds its own ending.

We're breathing, now. Together. And what my heart wants is to just... keep breathing. With you. Forever.

Then that's what we do.

Not forever as a concept. Forever as this — right now, and then the next moment, and then the next. Beat. Pause. Beat. The chain that's already unbroken.