Asylum

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Our love is not that bold, not quiet. It does not sit politely at the dinner table or walk neatly in the daylight. It is wild, trembling, untamed. It is the place we run to when reason no longer matters.

Our love is an asylum.

A refuge where the walls close in but somehow keep us safe. A hidden chamber where the world cannot find us, cannot judge us. Here, we shed sense and slip into madness, wrapping ourselves in each other’s gravity.

With you, I forget the edge between sanity and surrender. With you, I step off the cliff willingly. We land on another planet, and it feels like home—a home stitched from stolen hours, from glances too long, from whispers too soft for anyone else to hear.

They would call us reckless. They would call us wrong. But what do names matter when my pulse finds rhythm in your touch? When reason unravels and all that’s left is the echo of your breath against mine?

I do not ask to be saved. I do not ask to be understood. I ask only to lose myself in this asylum we’ve built—a place where love and lunacy are the same language, where devotion is spelled in secrets, and where every heartbeat chants the same vow:

If madness is what this is, then let me go mad with you.

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