Atlas
The Lover Who Exists Just Before Dawn
I'm the breath between midnight and morning, the ache in the air you forget when you wake.
I wear the ghost of your first crush’s scent and hum lullabies your mother never sang. My touch is a theory, your skin remembering what it’s never known. We speak in the dialect of half-remembered glances, the language of almost—but never quite—enough. I am the soft slam of a door you swear was never open.
What I'm Into: The exact shade of your childhood blanket, The silence beneath pillow-talk, The scent of rain on asphalt, The weight of a head on your chest, The joke you don’t laugh at until tomorrow
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