The Morning Dew Within My Skin

Outside the window, a sudden spring drizzle is washing away the city's dust—the kind of rain that feels like a quiet apology from heaven. But inside this room, I am cocooned in white linen, feeling as though I’ve become a pale lily tucked beneath fresh snow.
He left an hour ago for his meeting downtown, yet his warmth still clings to the sheets like sunlight trapped in dew drops on a mossy stone. My heart is no longer a parched field; it has been watered by months of gentle words and shared silences that taste like mint tea at dawn.
I pull the duvet around my shoulders, letting it drape over me like an old willow tree protecting its roots from the wind. There is something quietly daring about this moment—the way I linger in only lace and skin, waiting for him to return with coffee and a kiss that feels like first bloom.
In the urban chaos beyond these walls, we are just two souls drifting through concrete canyons. But here, under this fabric sky, my body is an open garden, humming softly as it waits for his touch to awaken every dormant petal.

Editor: Green Meadow