When Touch Meant Everything

Sheets still bear the faint smoke of us,

faint salt in the fibers, our shadows pressed

against the tired cotton.

Your hands told stories no voice could touch,

and every breath between us was urgent, sharp,

like a last line written in fading ink.

It wasn’t about bodies alone, no—

that night was a language, ragged, trembling,

a conversation where words fell silent

and everything left unsaid became loud.

And now the quiet reminds me—

how touch can be the loudest truth

when the world wants you to be quiet.