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 man staring

at a bra

as if it were a doorway

to a world

he was never invited into.