Dust looks like snow
fallen between brown leather
and books that smell like firewood
and coffee.

The room is warm, a little humid.
The air matters less than breath,
which is hard to come by
and harder to release.

I hold the armrests
and listen to the fountain outside,
remembering the way water flickers
before it cools the hand.

How many times has his hand
turned that knob?

I look at it and wonder
when the first time was,
when the last will be,
and which thoughts
determined the force of its opening.

Ideas lie between the ridges
of planks on the floor
while shadows turn through old windows.
A sunbeam touches the skin on his hand

and I blush.

He looks away.

His fingers find each other
and fidget there
while words come slowly,
interrupted by sighs,

then silence.

Outside, the fountain hums a tune
that sounds like a river.

©Jill Szoo Wilson, 2026