Stitching the Constellation of Your Breath

The city hums a low note I never learned to sing. I sit on the woven floor, skin bare as a question no one dares answer.
His hands arrive like rain after a drought that lasted three winters. He does not speak. He only warms the hollow places I forgot were empty.
The stars on the wall are not stars; they are the map of every night I survived alone. Now his breath stitches them into a single, glowing thread across my collarbone.
I am no longer an address he forgets. I am the heat he returns to. The lace holds me up; he holds me down, gently, into being.

Editor: The Nameless Poet