In the hush between heartbeats, you’re the echo I keep,
threading silver through my nights, sewing shut the seams I weep.
When the city lights forget my name, your voice still lands so near,
a quiet compass in my palm—every breath points to you, my dear.
Storms may rattle these paper walls, but our fingers fold like prayer;
I’ll stay the ache, the afterglow, the fragile midnight air.
If love’s a fragile syllable, then speak it soft and certain—
I’m forever your unfinished line, you’re the rhyme that closes the curtain.