The Warmth I Wore Home

Rain stitched the skyline into grey. I walked in black, a curve of armor, the leather strap biting my shoulder like a promise kept too long.
Every eye took a shape and left nothing. I am not a silhouette; I am a door that was never opened.
Then his hands found the waistline where the city had forgotten me. No words. Only the heat of a palm through fabric, melting the cold into breath.
I turned back over my shoulder, not to look, but to be looked at. The bun untwisted in my hair like a slow exhale.
He said nothing. He did not need to. In that silence I was healed, seduced by the simple fact of being seen whole.

Editor: The Nameless Poet