Threshold

The space between your breath and mine holds its own weather— fog that hasn't learned to fall.

I measure distance in the grammar of silence, each word withheld a door that opens only inward.

Outside, the city hums its ordinary song, but here we are, careful architects building cathedrals from air.

What does it mean to touch without the mercy of contact— to reach through glass that may be only the clarity of air, only our fear made visible?