The trace of your touch
The evening lies quietly over the room. The window is slightly ajar, and the warm air carries the scent of night into the room. You're not here – and yet it feels as though you're right next to me.
I sit still, my hands wrapped around a cup that's long since gone cold. Inside me grows this quiet longing, a pull that says more than words. It's the memory of warmth, of closeness, of that calm breathing when two bodies simply understand each other.
My thoughts wander to you. What it would be like to feel your hand now, your presence, which makes everything else quieter. No great desire, no urgency – just this gentle, deep need not to be alone.
Outside, it grows darker. Inside, a place remains empty that feels like it's waiting for you.
I lean back, close my eyes for a moment, and let the feeling in. The silence becomes thicker, almost tangible – as if it were wrapping itself around me like a soft blanket. And in this silence, you're there again.
I imagine you coming closer. Very slowly. The air changes, warmer, heavier. As if I could sense your presence before you even touch me. My breath becomes calmer, deeper.
My f****rs wander absent-mindedly over my arm, as if they wanted to remember what closeness feels like. What it's like when someone is there, right next to you, when warmth doesn't just come from within, but from another person.
You would sit down beside me. Maybe say nothing. Just be there. Your shoulder against mine, your breath calm, familiar. And eventually – of its own accord – our hands would find each other.
No rushing, no need. Just this quiet crackling between us that says more than any movement. This closeness that's not loud, but deep. That slowly spreads out until it fills everything.
I open my eyes again. The room is the same. Still. Alone.
But the feeling remains – like a gentle echo of you.
