Always.

They say "’til death do us part" —

like love’s expiration date is written in ash,

sealed with a tombstone kiss.

But baby —

you were never made for a single lifetime.

And it’s a good thing

you won’t be my groom, then, huh?

Because I’ve never needed a ring

to recognize your soul’s fingerprint.

We’ve been doing this dance

for centuries.

You —

with that same crooked smile,

me —

with the same stubborn fire

flickering in my chest.

We’ve met under

moonlight and warlight,

through plagues and parliaments,

with names we don’t remember

but hearts that always do.

In one life, you carved ships from driftwood,

and I waited by the shore,

salt in my hair,

knowing you'd return.

In another, I stitched poetry into tapestries

and you bled for the words.

We’ve died a hundred times

but never parted.

Only paused.

Only waited.

So no —

you won’t be my groom.

I don’t need vows that end with dirt and decay.

I don’t need a paper promise.

You are the echo I carry

in every version of myself.

You are the shadow I chase

even in dreams.

And if this life

decides to fold us apart —

if fate fumbles the strings this round —

don’t worry.

I’ll find you in the next.

And the next.

And the next.

Because some loves

don’t wear tuxedos.

Some loves don’t say “I do.”

They just are.

Over and over

and always.