We make a room by entering it.
Breath before voice, heat before word.
The space notices. It tightens, sighs, leans in.

Curtains adjust their drape. Shadows lose shape.
You brush your shoulder on the doorframe-
now it remembers skin.

The mirror shows us what it couldn’t before:
not reflection, but relation. Your glance spills over
the rim of the table and the wood warps sweetly.

I watch your arm move and the air
curve around it like a ribbon in wake.
We’re not just here- we’re hereing,
co-authoring the weather

with bare hands and closed eyes.
Even the walls blush; even the grout listens.
What we do to each other rewrites the angles.
Time softens in the corner. Light repositions.

And above us- up in the blueblack beyond-
the aether takes a new breath, spattered
with heat and orbit and consequence,
starstream nebulae left in our trail.

Call it passion. Call it haunting.
Either way, the constellations know our names now.