In the space between breathes
It isn’t loud.
It’s the way jasmine slips through an open window at 2 a.m.,
how your sweater still holds me,
days after you’ve gone.
It’s skin warm from sun,
a hint of sea salt on your collarbone,
tea steeping slow while your fingers
trace the rim of my cup.
When you lean in,
the world narrows to cinnamon and rain,
to that quiet space between breaths
where promises live, unspoken.
Passion smells like
your hair after summer storms,
like the first sip of wine when our knees touch,
like every morning I wake up
and choose you again.
It doesn’t burn
it glows.
And I’d know it anywhere.
©oriole_b
R