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The way her knees pressed against the velvet of the seat, she looked like a prayer someone forgot to finish saying.
I watched the tendon in your neck pull tight when you laughed, a high-tension wire vibrating in the dark of the sleeper car.
I’ve spent ten years trying to write a chemistry read that felt half as inevitable as the way your knees bracketed my hips.
The train rhythm was a pulse in my marrow, a low-frequency hum that made my thighs ache before anyone had even touched them.
The Amtrak coffee tasted like a wet wool blanket, but you were looking at my mouth like it was the only thing on the menu.