At night, she crawls around his chest,
Giving him comfort, a place to rest.
Born from linen and whispered sighs,
A lush of storm between her thighs.
He clings to her like a soul in ache;
She holds him tight till his edges break.
In times of despair, she bears his scars—
A silken thread amongst the stars.
Her breath lingers, a warmth on his skin,
A ghostly hush with a lover within.
She molds to fit, both firm and slight—
A phantom, a feather, his only light.
He traces her curve through her spine;
Their silence burns in tender shine.
She is cotton, both cold and pale;
He is the shadow she longs to inhale.
Pressed together, hand in hand,
Until the morning, she takes a stand.
She was the story he could not show—
A woman of fantasy, magic won't know.