Our bedsheets waft under the ceiling fan,
like silk waves rumpling over daggered rocks
and soft hands over broken bones,
a boundary that keeps the pain close,
and still lets it breathe.
This love is a comfortable cold.
It’s goosebumps and sweet sleep,
a touch that chokes the soul,
and releases it kindly.
It’s a kiss that grazes the lips and sits there,
breath becoming potion in the air,
misting onto our skin like yesterday's rain.
It’s everything we’ve lost and everything we've gained,
folding together like years worth of fresh laundry,
because you’re still you and I’m still me,
but clean.