Linger

It’s the final note that lingers, caught in your hair and your clothes, holding on to the threads like the comforting smell of home. It’s the rounded roll of a lapping shore against the tiny whispers, as it washes in and out; a drug-like hush in a moonlit fade. It’s the breathing glow of embers, their orange hearts rise and fall like throbbing suns seen through the slats of a wooden door. It’s the rush of blood in a lover’s touch, the rosy blush of tender skin, the growing tide of heat within, and it’s the final note that lingers.