There's death in my love, an apocalypse even. Every morning is a mourning. I grieve, bloom, and wilt in love. This is love as a spiral. We have always lived in these moments—beginning and ending spun until they blur out of focus.

The sorrows of life are just scripts. No surprises, only agreed-upon choices. I stand here with every age I've ever been. Wisdom waits at all angles as I thrum aliveness back like OM's echo so the universe doesn’t forget me.

Last night I saw the aging faces of everyone I've ever loved. Life inevitably brings Death to our steps—we don't need to pull it in. Today, it's about will and want, and whatever draws us closer to love.

I keep circling back to you in dreams, past loves recast as new players. The people we love and hurt lodge in our chakras, carving patterns into our bones. These loops are not just déjà vu—they are your cords. Old haunts sing loudly through the body. They play on repeat to summon your future. There are fractures in the field. It’s all energy. The emotional charge hums and has to be defused. You set yourself free when you change the tone.

I try to find the love in every dream. Sometimes there is no love. Sometimes it’s broken things and duties and misunderstandings. I wake up and look for it inside me, sifting through the debris. My heart exhales, like it has been holding its breath all night.

Every truth corresponds to its own level of consciousness. I say I love you in this timeline and it means nothing in another. There’s a beauty egg that falls between dimensions. It cracks. I rub the milky yolk all over my skin. The elevator dings and I’m on the highest floor, carrying a love that refuses to flatten itself to any one reality.

I enter a lower level of the dream just to be with you. My soul repeats itself. I tell you it’s a sacrifice when I do this, like slipping into an intermission between lives. There is no growth for me here, only the small, holy sweetness of finding you again.