After the music loosens its hold,
after heat learns the shape of quiet,
something remains—
not the touch,
but the way the air remembers it.
We do not cling.
We let the moment close itself,
like a door pulled gently
so the room keeps its warmth.
No vow sharpens the silence.
No hunger begs a name.
What stays is the knowing:
that I stepped fully into the flame
and did not disappear.
That I was moved, undone,
and still stood whole
inside my own pulse.
Desire softens into truth.
Not need. Not absence.
But a deep yes
resting in the body
like embers beneath ash—
alive, unafraid, sufficient.
If love ends here,
it ends without loss.
I do not leave myself behind.
I carry the rhythm forward,
quiet and lit,
a woman who has touched the edge
and learned
she belongs there.
My 3DXChat life 