The hush that follows holds me like the sea,
its ebbing tide still shimmering on my skin;
I float inside the quiet, wild and free,
a vessel emptied, yet remade within.

The air is velvet, thick with secret flame,
a breath of roses clings beneath my breast;
the stars lean close, as if they knew my name,
and crown my body’s ruin with their rest.

Each sigh becomes a feather on the air,
each tremor fades, but leaves a silver trace;
I lie unbound, yet weightless in the care
of silence draped in passion’s soft embrace.

And in that stillness, I am born anew—
a garden watered by the storm we drew.