The Architecture of a Silent Exhale

The city is a fever; this garden is the cooling sweat.
I stand in the throat of a sanctuary, where light tastes like copper and dust.
My skin drinks the sun—a golden ritual of being known without speech.
Every shadow on the stone is a poem I forgot to write.
You are here, not in body, but in the way the air thickens around my hair.
We are two ghosts dancing in a cage of bamboo,
finding home in the fracture between heartbeat and breath.

Editor: The Nameless Poet