In Places We Carry

 You never had to ask to know

where I carried the ache.

You read it in the way I folded my arms,

how my dress clung too long at the waist,

how I shifted when silence stayed too long.

And when your hand brushed mine

not by accident, not by command

it felt like someone finally asked permission

before entering a room I never meant to leave unlocked.

We are not loud in our closeness.

We do not need declarations.

Only the slow way your fingers trail along my freckles

like reading old text,

like you’re searching for something familiar in a language

you were once fluent in.

You touch my shoulder—not possessive,

but present.

And I do not flinch.

You lean toward me—not to conquer,

but to remember.

My hips, which I thought were too much,

meet yours like a quiet answer.

Soft doesn’t mean weak when it holds this much memory.

There’s power in the way we rest into each other

without apology.

Our thighs touch under linen

not in invitation,

but in recognition.

You do not map my body with your hands.

You map it with patience.

You let your gaze linger where others only ever passed through.

We speak without words.

Two kinds of quiet learning how to echo.

And when we laugh,

even that feels like a caress

a sound that knows the shape of our lungs,

the burn of holding in too much

for too long.

My back has learned to arch in prayer,

and in ache.

But only with you has it known rest.

You do not ask my body for answers.

You ask it to be honest.

We are not as they define.

But we are something more dangerous:

two who know how to touch

without taking,

to see

without stealing,

to stay

without needing to possess.

And in that space

in that quiet fire

and unspoken yes

we carry each other.