They whisper against me,
a ghost-touch, a hush in the dark,
woven in secrets, spun in silence,
sliding smooth over every sharp edge.
They cinch tight, hold me together,
keep the world from slipping through
the cracks in my armor—
a veil between the rough and the raw.
I step into them like a promise,
like a spell woven with fine-threaded care,
a lattice of longing, a net for the night,
soft enough to soothe, strong enough to bind.
They shimmer in the dim glow of streetlights,
whisper in the language of tension,
tell a story of delicate power,
of silk-thin strength that will not break.
A ladder’s just a run in the weave,
a slip in the threadwork, a fragile defeat—
but even torn, even frayed,
they cling to me like devotion.
