19 Hours and 6 Down

Evening settles in its own slow syntax—
a sofa by the fire, one lamp awake, quiet brains engaged.
No urgency, no revelation, just a gentle proving-ground for words.

Clues drift beside breath, warmth, pulse—
another dimension running parallel, ink and ember,
thinking and feeling as equal citizens of the moment.

A pen murmurs its guesses.
The fire listens without solving.

Night folds around us like wool—
soft, dim, immeasurable.
No clocks. No translations.
Just breath, warmth, skin-to-skin syntax,
spoken in pulse and fingertips.
Sweetness without theory—
a world temporarily without edges.

Morning arrives gentle-footed,
dew-soft, carrying too much at once—and nothing at all,
the kind that hovers in the air
like mist: felt, but not held.
One kitchen. Two Chairs. Toast.
Touch like an unfinished sentence—
not longing… just fullness, paused.

Leaving with a quiet exit-face—
tender, vulnerable, holding something—?
even the hallway holds its breath.
Not mine to name.

Back to bed.
My arms and legs find the body pillow—practiced, uncomplicated.
The room exhales.
The pillow already knows it won’t compare—
still, it shows up. I hold it anyway.

I hold. Him. Anyway.