We danced once—
drunk on autumn and pumpkin coffee—
your bare feet stirring the grass to silver,
your laugh in the trees.

The breeze smelled of cinnamon,
and your hair crossed my cheek—
a hush,
as if you were telling me something
the body knows before the mind gives it words.

I held you
not to keep,
but to memorize—
every shiver,
each breathless sweep
of your hand through mine.

The night,
close as breath,
carried us in its dark pocket
until time forgot
what to do with us.

Now,
when the days burn down early
and the air fills with smoke and spice,
I carry your heat—
not in my hands,
but where touch outlives the skin.