I.
He whispered my name.
“Show me where your story lives.”
I offered my scars.

II.
Plates overflowing.
Hands open, wordless welcome.
“There’s plenty,” they say.

III.
Past kisses present
as we visit every ghost–
silent honoring.

IV.
Music, smoke, and laughs—
midnight stories passed like cups.
The porch won’t let go.

V.
Named with every breath–
presence reclaiming my
specificity.

VI.
His grin splits the air:
“You one of us.” And I know
I already am.