Her Bra
Why are you still hanging there, swaying on that thin thread like a memory that refuses to leave my chest? You are not just a bra. You are a ghost holding the warmth of her body, the faint scent of her skin. Mid-afternoon. A breeze enters the room. The curtain lifts. Rice simmers on the stove. Yet it is you, hanging there, that steals the hunger from my plate and drops it into the hollow of my chest. I look at you and imagine the world behind you— fabric, skin, silence. Where is her heart? Why can I not reach it? How can even her clothing shake my bones while her eyes pass through me like I am air? Tell me— what sin did I commit to feel this invisible? I stand here, so close to her warmth, yet never welcomed inside it. Love, I thought, was sacred. But even the sacred can hang on a thread, drying in the afternoon sun, mocking the man who stares too long. Forgive me for wanting to feel something. For wanting to know her— not through lust, but through longing. And still here I remain: a m...