your hands lingered
the night held us like it always does,
concrete under your knees, stars overhead.
you moved quietly, hands busy,
pressing little brown shields over my wounds
until the world felt smaller, softer, safe.
we were still friends—yet this has changed.
and in that quiet, care was everything:
full, tender, almost too much
but exactly what needed to be there.
love was present, yes,
but it wasn’t a word, it was action—
patching, pressing, staying.
there were no bad moments, only the steady hum
of someone keeping you whole,
and the simple truth that we survived it together.
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