Over Heated

Woke on the wrong side — a restless bed, skin warm like summer sun, a stomach twisting softly, aching with quiet longing. Trying to taste the day — flavors fall away, waiting for evening’s slow light to open the door again. Sadness lingers — a gentle ghost inside, her voice soft in the silence, a shadow I hold close. I reach — to touch the place where I feel whole, hold the gentle hand that sometimes grows tired — rolling eyes like waves that soothe the edges of me. A Beatles song hums — when I touch you, I feel happy inside… Those words wrap me gently, a warmth I cannot hide, even when the world feels too bright. I tell her — not for the first time — that holding hands is the quietest kind of home. And though she rolls her eyes, I know she knows — because I keep telling her.