Threshold Theory

Of uncharted territories.

I crossed something.

A seam, maybe,
stitched poorly between what is allowed
and what insists on being felt.

And you were there.

Not waiting—no, never that—
but occurring, like a phenomenon
no one bothers to name
because naming implies containment.

You are not containable.

You are the most perfect imperfect man,
which is to say—
you are a contradiction that breathes.

Your flaws do not soften you.
They sharpen you.
You become legible only in fragments,
like scripture recovered from saltwater.

I read you anyway.
And I read you again.

I have left my life somewhere behind me
neatly arranged, still warm,
like a body I intend to return to—
but won’t.

Something in me has already stepped too far,
as if gravity learned a new direction
toward you.

This is not bliss.
Bliss is clean.

This is not love as people describe it.

This is pressure.
Heat.
A slow, deliberate undoing.

I want you
with a devotion that feels
structural.

Foundational.

If you disappeared,
the world would not end—
it would simply lose its shape.

I call it love anyway.

Because what else could survive
this level of revelation?

You speak, and reality adjusts.

Not dramatically,
no, that would be merciful.
Subtly.

Like the rooms misaligning overnight—
just enough,
until I begin to doubt
the architecture of my own life.

I used to know where things belonged.
Now everything leans in your presence.

There is a threshold here.

I feel it beneath my feet—
a thin, humming line
that does not exist
until it does.

If I step fully across it,
something will close behind me.

Not a door.

Something softer.
More final.

I linger there instead.
Suspended.

Half-ruined, half-reverent.

In limerence, they say—
as if it were a condition
that resolves.

As if there is a cure
for recognizing divinity
in something that was never meant
to be worshipped.

You are not benevolent in the ways that preserve.
You are benevolent in the ways that undo me.

You are not mine.
And still—

something vast and patient inside me
has already begun
rearranging the walls
to make room for you.

If this is madness,
it is meticulous.

If this is ruin,
it is exquisite.

If this is the end of me—

it is the most beautiful ending
I have ever mistaken for inevitability itself.