Letters from Xhale the magazine Words that breathe. Stories that Linger,

She said, without a tremor,
“I’ll wait by the moon—
where nothing burns,
where love forgets how to wound,
where silence keeps me whole.”

And I, with skin still marked by fire,
answered without thinking,
“I’ll wait by the sun—
though it scars,
though it blinds,
though it asks everything of me.”