Thread held tight between my teeth. The linen folds before I speak. A quiet ritual, smooth and slow— each gesture something I don’t show. The table’s set. The silence leans. A life maintained in in-betweens. I smile where I used to breathe. The rooms are warm. The light is clean. No place for dust. No space to lean. Each step rehearsed. The floor remembers. I move like thought between the embers. A chime. A pause. A glance gone still— and something wraps around my will. But nothing touches me at all. This is comfort, dressed in grace— gold-framed hours I can't replace. No locks. No chains. Just soft restraint. A sky rehearsed in borrowed grace. It isn't cruel. It isn't kind. It's what remains when choice goes blind. No windows here—just filtered light, enough to bloom, too soft for flight. The stem stays straight from lack of bend. The roots grow in, then twist again. They do not reach. They do not roam. They form a shape that looks like home. I trace the seam and nod like yes. I’ve learned the art of still replies, of speaking less, and looking wise. No questions asked. No reason missed. Just touch that lingers at the wrist. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t heal. It only shows me what is real. The thread gives out—no sound, no scar. Just space where softer edges are. The lights stay on. The breath delays. The room remains. My name— decays.
