New Jeanland

I love you
like someone standing in the rain
outside a burning house.

Everyone says run.
But there is something unbearable
about seeing a soul on fire
and remembering
how softly it once said your name.

I have loved the wounded thing
inside dangerous people.

Even when it bites.
Even when it leaves.
Even when it chooses 
fire over sanctuary.

You were not cruel in the ordinary way.

You carried ruin inside you
like something sacred,
and I loved you enough
to stand too close to it.

Maybe grief is
watching someone destroy themselves
while you reach through the smoke
for the parts you love.