You’re sitting on the couch,
head tilted back, eyes closed,
hands loosely at your sides.
The room smells faintly of old coffee
and the rain outside.
It’s a lazy kind of evening,
nothing urgent,
just the soft hum of time passing.

I sit beside you,
our shoulders touching,
neither of us saying much.
The only sound is the occasional creak
of the floorboards when I shift,
or the faint rustle of your clothes
as you adjust.

You don’t reach for me,
but I feel it,
the way your presence fills the space
without demanding anything.
The quiet speaks more
than we ever could.

I rest my head on your shoulder,
and for a moment,
it’s enough—
the weight of your body next to mine,
the simplicity of this space
where nothing needs to be more
than it already is.

We don’t need to do anything
but exist in this.