The Weight of What’s Mine

Your pulse is a metronome I’ve claimed, a rhythm I’ve memorized, a cadence I’ve tamed each beat a proof of ownership, a ledger where I’ve tallied every breath you’ve made. I’ve mapped the constellations of your scars, charted the tides of your laughter, your tears, collected the fragments of your shattered stars like a curator of relics, a thief of years. Your hands are mine to hold, to mold, to keep, your voice, a melody I’ve copyrighted in sleep, your dreams, a vault where I’ve stashed the key, your soul, a garden I’ve fenced, a field I’ve seeded. You’re the compass I’ve recalibrated, the north I’ve rewritten, the east I’ve debated, the west I’ve conquered, the south I’ve enslaved— a world I’ve shrunk to fit the palm of my hand, a universe I’ve folded into a fist.