Her Anal Training Set

We rehearse our love in ruins,
among candles that bleed black wax,
each heartbeat a distorted drum,
each kiss a fracture in silence.

No guns, no masters — only us,
two creatures stitched from longing,
our bodies whisper algorithms
of pain, desire, and laughter.

You are the echo in my veins,
I am the tremor in your breath,
together we compose a set
that breaks the spine of daylight.

Love is a rehearsal of wounds,
yet tenderness hides in the cracks,
and we laugh through the ashes,
knowing our union is eternal —
like night without a dawn.

Love rehearses the fracture,
teaching us how to bleed beautifully.
It is the script of scars,
the choreography of trembling hands.

Every embrace rehearses absence,
every kiss rehearses loss,
yet in the repetition of breaking,
we discover the strength to remain.

Love is not perfection —
it is the rehearsal of imperfection,
the endless practice of falling,
and rising again in shadows.

It is the wound that sings,
the scar that glows,
the rehearsal that never ends —
because love is both the injury
and the cure.