Close

Close

Not the shut of door or book, But the steam that ghosts your cup As you lean, just fraction, near While the kettle sighs its favour. Shoulders almost touching, slow Like two biscuits in a tin – No need for words to fill the gap Where quiet hums and grows.

A shared blanket’s rough-weave warmth Pulls tight around our knees, Fingers brushing, accidental, As we watch the light fade, please. The world outside turns sharp and cold With evening’s coming-on, But here, between us, no space exists Where doubt or fear has drawn.

This is close: not just the near Of skin or shoulder, head, But the knowing, deep and quiet, That you are safely led Home by presence, simple, sure – A harbour, not a port. The truest distance measured Is the space where hearts resort.