It does not begin where you expect. It gathers in the body first. A low pressure. A quiet insistence under the ribs.

Each time you fall in love something loosens its grip. A name slips. A border thins.

You become less certain of your edges. More available to touch, to fracture, to change. The self softens.

Then resists. Then opens again.

Love is not arrival. It is a disturbance of form.

A small undoing that feels like truth.

Each time you fall in love you lose something precise.

A defence. A version.

A way of standing alone. something unnamed begins to move.

Slow. Animal. Bright with risk.