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

I remember the nights when you were cold,
when my warmth was the bridge that carried us back to each other.
You leaning into me felt like proof of love—
like being needed was its own kind of fire.

So now, with the night this warm,
I almost miss the shiver.
Miss the excuse to pull you close,
to feel useful to your heart again.

Could you shiver for me, just a little?
Not from winter—
but so I can remember what it felt like
to keep you warm.