Juggernaut

I walked through the door
and on the other side was no room.

There was a lush shape —
flushed, red, opening forward
like a thick heart laid flat,
wide end facing the world,
narrow end where I stood.
And at its core: her.

Not waiting. Not calling. Just full.
Full the way summer is full.
Full the way a body is full
when it has stopped apologizing for its heat.

Dark hair. Warm skin. The weight of her.
The way she takes up space without shrinking.
The way her laughter doesn't ask for permission.
The way her warmth enters a room before she does.

I have a word for her:
Juggernaut —
not the crushing kind,
the kind you cannot look away from.
The kind that moves through the world
like weather.
Not a storm.
A warm front
that changes everything it touches
and doesn't apologize
and doesn't explain
and doesn't stop.

And she reaches me
before I speak,
surrounds me
the way warm water surrounds —
and I let her

as the heart-shape widens
and I touch home.