Petals of a Slow Sunday

The city outside my window hums its last gray note, and I let it fall like snow on the glass.
I frame my own hair with two open hands, as if crowning a quiet kingdom that belongs to no one but me. The lace against my skin is black petals on white silk—a garden that blooms only for the hour I am soft enough to look.
Earlier today the metro rattled its cold iron song and strangers brushed my shoulder like wind. Now the wood behind me warms, the lamp pours honey over everything, and I breathe in slow, measured tides.
Somewhere beyond these walls, he is making tea; somewhere inside them, I am becoming whole again, one petal at a time.

Editor: Lyric