Sometimes it isn’t the touch that undoes you—
it’s the nearness.
The way his steps slowed beside mine,
boots carving twin paths through the snow.
The way the dim lights caught on his jaw,
sharp and softened all at once.
Our shadows brushed first,
sliding together like they remembered something
we hadn’t said out loud.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t have to.
There are moments he reaches me
without lifting a hand—
pulling me back with nothing but presence,
nothing but the gravity we pretend not to feel.
In the dark,
under winter branches heavy with lights,
his shadow found mine again.
And I didn’t move away.
Reading Trauma Mama: Velvet & Taboo 