The Ache Behind Skin’s Quiet

Fingers trace the blanket’s worn thread,

rough wool caught on nails like old regrets.

The train’s breath still lingers

—a stranger’s hand brushed skin, then gone.

A sudden absence carved beneath my ribs,

a quiet thrum that wants to break open,

to catch the weight of flesh on flesh.

I turn to fabric, rough and pillowed,

wanting the ache behind skin’s quiet,

shaking the silence where no one lingers.

This cold is nothing but absence,

sharp and raw as broken glass.

Touch me,

just once more.