Touched, Not Taken

When the first note finds my skin,
it doesn’t ask permission.
It settles into my chest
like a familiar hand
that knows where I keep my ache.

Music touches me
in ways language never learned.
A brush against the ribs,
a slow exhale behind the eyes,
a pulse that says stay.

It was my first love,
and it will be my last.
The only constant,
that never asked me to be smaller,
never left when the silence grew heavy.

The world is loud with wanting,
with clocks and voices and sharp edges,
but I turn the volume just enough
to build a wall made of sound.
Nothing gets through that doesn’t belong.

In this space, I am held.
Every chord leans closer,
every lyric breathes against my ear
like a secret meant only for me.
I am not watched here. I am not needed.

I disappear without leaving,
float between beats,
let the song carry the weight
I’ve been pretending isn’t heavy.

When the music ends,
the world knocks again,
but for a while...
I was somewhere softer,
somewhere I could be touched
without being taken.

- Merry -