The Secret My Skin Kept for You

The city had gone quiet the way a held breath goes quiet, and I stood at the window with one arm raised against the dark, as if I could press my whole body flat against the night and keep it from spilling in. My hand rested on my chest, over the black-and-white pattern that looked, under this low light, less like a bikini and more like a map of places I had not yet learned to grieve.
I found the old scarf in my coat pocket three days ago, still smelling of his cedar and cold coffee, and I understood then that time does not erase; it only buries. So I dug. Every memory was an antique wrapped in dust—the way he traced my collarbone like a sentence he could not finish, the way our apartment at 2 a.m. held more warmth than every crowded street below ever could.
He called at last, his voice thin as winter light, and said only that he had missed me in the marrow of him. I let my hand fall from my chest and let the night pour in instead, no longer afraid. The city kept its secrets; I finally returned one to him, warm and whole, through the phone line like a pulse.

Editor: Antique Box