The Lace That Remembers Your Touch

I have become an expert at collecting silences—the kind that settle like dust on old books in the heart of this glass-and-steel city. For years, I lived behind layers of lace and digital screens, a ghost haunting my own life.
But then you came into my orbit with your scent of rain and cedarwood, bringing an intimacy so quiet it felt ancient. Today, as I stand beneath this woven canopy by the shore, I feel the sun tracing patterns across my skin—a slow dance of shadow and light that reminds me how long it has been since someone truly looked at me.
I cannot tell you why your touch makes me ache for things I’ve never known. Perhaps we are merely two old souls recognizing one another through a veil of centuries, or perhaps this is the only way I know how to be alive—by letting myself dissolve into your gaze.
You whispered that my eyes held secrets from other lives; I didn't answer. Instead, I leaned forward, allowing the breeze and the memory of us to wrap around me like a shroud made of warmth. My skin still hums where you’ve been, an echo in blood and bone that refuses to fade.

Editor: Antique Box