i chose you
with all your fragments--
both those emitting light
and the ones dark as night.

no new information, just my thoughts dressed in rhyme.
since i feel the need to absolve myself of this "crime."
it's not a fucking burger from mcdonald's my dear,
that i picked up for cheap and brought over here.

this thing you call "unhealthy," this way that i care,
didn't grow overnight, it was damaged and repaired.
you say living for someone means losing your spine,
like a program that crashes when cut from the line.

but that's not the code running somewhere in me,
it's not how the system was meant to be.
my life had its colors long before you arrived,
i was breathing, building, stubbornly alive.

i made systems and machines, plastic pieces of time,
kept my hands busy turning grief into design.
but loneliness sits like a wire in the wall,
quiet electricity under it all.

and when someone appears who can see through the noise,
who hears every glitch and error in my voice,
something shifts in the structure, the purpose expands,
suddenly living has somewhere to land.

so when i say i'd move mountains, or give what i can,
it is not surrendering who i am.
it's not erasing myself to make room for you,
it's two lights in a circuit burning brighter as two.

you hear "dependence," a warning, a scar from before,
echoes of someone who closed every door.
and i get why that shadow still sits in your sight,
why devotion can look like a warning light.

but love isn't sterile, detached, or contained,
not some careful equation with variables chained.
it's risk and it's trust and it's saying out loud
that someone can matter enough to be proud.

if someday you're gone, yes, the wound would be deep,
some hollows are promises memory keeps.
scars form slowly, the body adjusts,
time lays its quiet sediment over the dust.

but i'd still rather live with a heart that was true
than one that stayed safe by refusing to choose.
so no, this devotion you keep calling "a flaw"
isn't sickness or weakness, or breaking some law.

and here's the part i struggle to phrase without sound
like i'm begging for something i haven't yet found.
because every time you call this love something "wrong,"
a quiet old doubt starts singing along.

not a new voice, no, just an old one i know,
the same tired whisper i've buried below.
the one that says maybe i'm simply "too much,"
too loud with my care, too intense with my touch.

when it's simply the way that my compass steers,
and life tastes a little sweeter when you're here.

she ran life in ring 3 while the world held the keys,
single-stepping their crashes through stacked SEH trees.
"patch the wounds," "run the code," "keep the system online,"
burning cycles of her time just so others could shine.
hex dumps of her spirit spilled silent and thin,
till she traced one lost pointer - resolved into her within.

so she patched opcodes of mercy she had misapplied.
ASLR on the past, let the vectors all slide,
found her voice in the noise: "wait. that's not mine."
no applause in the network, just a soft inner ping,
as she whispered back gently: "it's my own fucking link."
signed in her own key where the cursor idly blinked.

you call my stillness boredom
like silence is a crime.
like calm must mean i'm empty,
like peace is wasted time.
but storms have worn these bones before
in ways i rarely show,
and after walking through that dark
you learn to move... slow.

i used to chase horizons
until my lungs burned thin,
collecting little fractures
where wonder should have been.
new cities, new disasters,
new lessons carved in stone,
and every road kept whispering:
"you're meant to walk alone."

so i learned the art of quiet
like tending candlelight,
small joys without a witness,
soft mornings without fight.
a cup, a song, a window,
a sky that didn't scream,
a life that asked for nothing
except the space to breathe.

you see a girl who lingers,
who doesn't leap or run.
you see a closed horizon
where there should be a sun.
but you don't see the mileage
behind these careful eyes,
the map that's burned to ashes
from too many goodbyes.

and you... you blaze like comets,
forever chasing flame,
new roads beneath your boots
before the last had name.
you hunger for the thunder,
for stories loud and wild,
while i just guard the quiet -
i think it's fine, alright?

maybe we are strangers
sharing borrowed air,
two languages of living
that never learned to pair.
you think my calm is prison,
i think your storms are knives,
and somewhere in that difference
we bruise each other's lives.

but listen now, my restless love,
before we drift apart:
i'm not afraid of motion,
i'm just done being the start.
i've dragged the wheel through miles alone,
through wreckage, dust, and fear.
if roads still call your name...
then take the driver's seat, my dear.

i'll sit beside the window,
watching worlds unfold.
not chasing, not resisting,
just letting life be told.
lead us where you're dreaming,
i'll follow where you steer.
i'm tired of searching solo...
but i'll ride with you from here.

we met in january's frozen throat,
when trees wore ash and skies wore smoke,
the streets with no idea how to bloom,
the world rehearsing for the tomb,
and breath came out like quiet doom.

you walked in black with ribbons tied,
a porcelain storm at winter's side,
foreign letters on your skin,
soft like prayer, sharp like sin,
teaching stillness how to grin.

i answered back with electric fire,
small fake suns from copper wire,
built you warmth from scrap and steam,
bolted hope into the seam
between the real and what we dream.

they said this time of year buries all,
no seed survives the final fall,
but every step you chose to take
made sidewalks ache and ice awake,
convinced the frost to simply... break.

so let them trust in march's art,
we carved a pulse in season's heart,
you with lace and lunar trace,
me with gears, with oil and grace,
as coldness learned a living face.