Sunlit Skin, Silent Echoes

Dust motes dance.
A quiet room. His absence, a soft ache.
The scent of rain on warm skin lingers—a phantom touch, a ghost of promises whispered against the glass.
Sunlight paints patterns on the floor; each shard a memory I trace with my fingertips.
He said 'maybe' but his eyes held galaxies of unspoken words.
A fragile hope blooms in the hollow of my chest, delicate as porcelain.
I run a hand through my hair, remembering the weight of his gaze. This silence is a canvas—we could paint forever.

Editor: The Nameless Poet