Still. Quiet. This heart of mine — its steady beat. Your warm body in my bed. The frosted windows keep the world out. We listen to the wind. You give me a month, and then another — in our ease we wake up two years later, and I have named all your bones Closer — I have named all your bones More. I whisper candlelit confessions into your ear, as if you have not heard them before, the rushed words, the promise. Your hands in my hair. So this is the magic we have come to call love. So this is the love we have come to call home.