The Weight of Silk

The sunlight feels different here, doesn't it? Warmer, maybe. It pools on the sheets like liquid gold.
He’s still asleep, and I could reach out, trace the line of his jaw with my fingertips... but I won't. Not yet. These quiet moments before waking are precious—a fragile peace we haven't quite earned each day.
I remember when silk felt extravagant, something reserved for special occasions. Now… now it’s just another layer between skin and air, a small comfort against the cool morning. A little luxury salvaged from a life that once felt so far away.
He said he loved this dress on me, the one I wore the night we met. It's funny how easily we cling to things, isn’t it? How a memory can become woven into the fabric of our days…
I close my eyes and breathe him in—the scent of his skin, the warmth of his body pressed against mine. Maybe today will be different. Maybe today, everything will finally feel alright.

Editor: Laundry Line