Whole and tumbling at speed,
etched, immortalised in memory—
our secret longing,
with fingertips touching, offering always.
Time bends in the hush between heartbeats,
a silent surrender to the weight of wanting,
where light spills across open palms,
and shadows stretch toward the horizon,
never quite reaching, never quite fading.
The wind carries whispers too fragile to hold,
threading through the spaces left behind,
where touch lingers like an unspoken vow,
a language of skin, of presence, of knowing—
an echo of what we are, of what we will always be.