The Shadow of Your Touch

I stand in the afternoon light, where bamboo shadows dance across my skin like slow breaths. The city hums beyond these walls—a distant roar of steel and deadlines—but here, time has forgotten us.
You are just behind me. I can feel your warmth before you even touch me; a quiet radiation that settles into my bones. When your hand finally finds the small of my back, it is not an act but a conversation.
We speak in silence: 'I am here.'
The silk slip clings to me like a second skin, cool and fluid, yet I feel warmer than if I were wrapped in wool. My heart beats against my ribs—a soft rhythm that echoes the slow sway of the leaves above us.
You don't say you love me; instead, you brush a stray hair from my neck with your thumb, lingering just long enough for me to forget where I end and you begin.

Editor: Pure Linen