My Only Angel

Like the morning after a sleepless night, when your lips still remember the taste of yesterday's poison, and your hands reach for something familiar, even if it's dangerous. Every word is a slight intoxication, every rhythm is that ‘one more time, and that's enough.’ Love here is like contraband: you hide it under your jacket, carry it along unfamiliar roads, knowing you will lose it - but you come back anyway. An ironic cocktail of poison and tenderness, of ‘I have to let go’ and ‘at least one last time.’