The Holding Weight

The car door clicked shut,

a small finality.

Then the long drive home,

each mile a breath held.

Now the house is quiet,

a breath I didn't know I was holding, released.

She’s heavy,

a sack of stones and sleep

settled against my shoulder.

Her hair, fine as spun silk,

prickles my cheek.

I can feel the slow rise

and fall of her small chest,

a separate world

breathing against me.

This density, this warmth,

it’s a truth I can’t articulate,

a weight that grounds me

in the deep, soft dark.