Just one;
and the crowd disappears.  
Not the noise,  
but the ache beneath it.  

Your robe sweeps  
like the edge of a memory  
too sacred to name,  
too silent to forget.  

I didn’t ask.  
Didn’t shout.  
Just reached,  
as if the gravity of healing  
could be borrowed  
in a breath.  

Blood listens.  
Shame stills.  
Every fracture sings  
beneath skin mended  
by mercy  
I dared not deserve.

You turned.  
Not to scold,  
but to see me,
the me behind the reaching.  

And that touch?  
It was not mine.  
It was yours,  
returning everything  
I didn’t know I’d lost.