The Incense That Binds Our Shadows

The smoke from the altar doesn't just rise; it weaves, like a silent lover tracing lines across skin that never meets. I stand amidst these white guardians—eyes wide and unblinking in their perpetual vigil—mimicking my own secret watchfulness.

He is not here now, yet his presence clings to the silk of my kimono like dew on a spider’s web. We don't speak of our love in loud declarations or public displays; we live in the spaces between breaths, the syllables left unsaid during late-night train rides through neon rain.

I press my palms together, seeking warmth from a prayer I haven't fully articulated. Is it for his safety? Or is it to keep the coldness of this world at bay while we share our hidden sanctuary? My heart beats in time with the rhythmic flicker of temple bells—a pulse that only he knows how to interpret.

The incense warms my lungs, a fleeting embrace from an invisible hand. In his absence, I find myself most present; every fold of fabric and every wisp of smoke becomes a vessel for our unspoken intimacy. He is the shadow behind my light, the secret ache that makes this white silk feel like skin.

I close my eyes and imagine him standing beside me now, his hand grazing mine just enough to send a shiver through my soul. We are two ghosts haunting each other's dreams, finding healing in the silence of things left undone.

Editor: Shadow Lover