In the hush of your nest,
where warmth rests beneath your weighted blanket,
I think of you—
every imperial inch, every breath, every quiet moment,
woven between us like threads spun from light. 

You hum the song I sang last week,
the one I didn’t know I knew.
You share its name, send me the link,
and now it’s ours, stitched into the rhythm of us.

You recall the meeting I was bracing for,
the one I spoke of last Tuesday.
“Did it turn out alright?”
before I even find the words to say it.

A steady pulse of remembering,
proof that even miles apart,
this love lives in the details.

Our geodesic dome dream,
a place of light and weightless air,
where angles hold but never bind,
where you and I could meet at last,
beneath a sky both infinite and ours. 

The gentle beat of connection,
where there is no hesitation,
no space between
where my hands should be
and where they are meant to rest.

The rise and fall of you,
soft against my palm,
skin warm, yielding, alive.
This place, not of longing
but of comfort, quiet peace, of home.

It’s not grand or loud,
it’s just these silent threads you weave,
drawing me in from miles away—
a soft, steady, knowing
that I am always in your heart.