velvet

my skin holds the temperature of old winters. i am a museum of soft, quiet aches, dressed in lace and the scent of rain.

i am looking for a shadow that fits mine. a weight that doesn’t bruise but anchors. someone who knows how to touch the wreckage without trying to sweep the shards away.

reach for me, but move like a ghost. a whisper of heat against the small of my back. i am so tired of carrying this gravity alone, kiss the hollows of my collarbone. find the places where the light forgot to land, and breathe into me until the world outside becomes nothing but a blurred, velvet dark.

i am a sad, pretty thing, learning to be held without shrinking from the warmth. taste the salt on my skin, it is the story i haven’t told yet, a dangerous, beautiful invitation to lose yourself in the quiet with me.

chloe