Ribbon and Knife

The smell of you is still all over my skin. You're a lot of things. But it’s the way you say my name that haunts me—like a sweet secret or a long-lost prayer returning to your lips.

To the folks in this town, you're a nightmare in a leather jacket. They see the scars and the silence, and they write you off as a villain. But they don't see the way your hands tremble just a little when you press a cemetery rose into my palm. Even with the petals stained by soot and bone, it felt like something sacred. Like a holy relic just for me. Anyone else would have wanted diamonds or something that glitters, but you've always seen right through me. You know I’ve never been one for the shimmer; I want something that survived. They don't know that for all your roughness, you touch me like I’m something fragile, something made of glass that you're terrified of breaking.

When I saw you leaning against that rusted hood, I didn't see a criminal. I saw the only truth I’ve ever cared to know.

You told me the world is going to burn us. You said villains are never granted the grace of a sunset. There was such a heavy sadness in your eyes, like you were already mourning us. But darling, if we’re going down, I’m not going to be the tragedy in the background of your story. I’m the one holding the match.

To love you is to exist in the "blue hour." My devotion isn’t a pastel thing. If the "moralists" back there think they’re winning because they have their polished reputations under bright lights, they can keep it. I’d rather be the ghost in your passenger seat than the saint in their stained-glass windows.

The "ribbon and knife" we wear at the throat is a beautiful price for the choices we’ve made. In your eyes, I’m never something to be fixed or a trophy to be won—just your favorite partner-in-crime, dreaming beside you.

They call your touch 'violence' because they haven't felt the way your hand turns to silk when it grazes my cheek. They call us a 'warning' because we’re the only ones who aren't afraid of the dark we’re standing in.

I’m not your captive. I’m your heartbeat. And I’d rather go down in a headline with you than live forever in a footnote without you.

While they sharpen their virtues like flint, I am finding where the jagged edges stay warm. The ruthless hand on the wheel of my fate. If your love is a sin, then I’ll be your shrine and lock every door at the gate.

Let the sirens scream until they lose their voices. They can keep their heaven and their clean-cut lies. I’ve found my melody in the static, and as long as your hand is on that gearshift and mine is over yours, I don’t care if the road ends at a cliff. I’m exactly where I chose to be.

You're the only thing that’s ever made me feel alive. You taste like copper and the end of the world, and I wouldn’t trade that for a thousand Sunday mornings. Every scar on your knuckles is the path you took and the struggles you overcame just to make it to this street corner, where the light flickers, and find your home in my arms.