The cathedral arrived first. Not as a set. As a pressure. A floor that had given up being a floor. Black water where prayer used to stand. Red light through glass that no longer asks for anything.
The petals came next — not romance. Wounds that float. Proof that something beautiful had already been cut. They make the surface lie. They hide the depth. They mark the place she goes under.
The claim is not a kiss. It is a renaming. Forehead to forehead until the old name drowns and the only one left is his. Gold at her throat because she came dressed for it. Ink on him because the story was already written on the body that would keep her.
Some dreams do not stay quiet. They drag you under.