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Threshold


I think he kissed me in the dream.

Not with lips... with presence.
With the gravity of someone who almost reached me, but didn’t.

I woke with the memory of being touched, not in the usual places...
but in the quiet space between breath and thought. Where longing lives.
I still feel it.

And it wasn’t the familiar warmth beside me that stirred me.
It was the weight of another...
the warmth that came from nothing real, but still left a mark.

I didn’t open my eyes for a while. I was afraid the sheets would be cold.
Afraid I’d turn and find only light, not him.

I don’t know whose hands I remembered.
Only that they knew me.
Not my name.
Not my story.
Just… the shape of me,
as if they had dreamt me first.

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