The Incense of Skin and Silk

The city outside screams in neon and exhaust, a jagged beast clawing at the glass of my studio apartment. But here, behind the heavy oak door, time curdles into a thick, fragrant syrup.
I stand before the stone basin, my breath hitching as the steam rises like ghosts from a drowned past. My fingers are pressed together—a prayer or perhaps a restraint against the wild thrumming in my pulse. The silk of my kimono is cool against my skin, yet I feel the phantom heat of your touch on the back of my neck, a lingering brand that refuses to fade.
You were there last night, your hands rough like weathered wood against my smooth throat, teaching me that true healing isn't found in silence alone, but in the collision of two bodies seeking sanctuary. Now, I close my eyes and let the incense burn away the grime of the day. My eyelids flutter as I summon your scent—sandalwood mixed with the metallic tang of rain on asphalt.
In this sacred space, the ascetic girl becomes a temple for your desire. I am healing not because the world is soft, but because you have taught me how to hold my own strength while surrendering it entirely to you. The wind catches my hair, a wild whip against my face, and I smile into the void. I am still here, anchored by memory, waiting for the next time we burn together.

Editor: Leather & Lace