Terroir of Ink

[Verse 1]
The wallet's worn leather, a hollow in my palm,
Where shadows of your words keep every nerve alarm.
A crease-map of a story, a fabric I still mend,
From that quiet Tuscan evening, a truth without end,
A quiet echo, deep inside my chest.

[Chorus]
This ink-stained linen, a tether I can't break,
The silent hum of secrets, for memory's sake.

[Verse 2]
I trace the hurried strokes, the way your hand did move,
A potent, unspoken language, our intricate, tangled groove.
The phantom scent of espresso, bitter on the air,
Imbues this filament, a truth I still can bear.
A subtle friction, a memory so sharp.

[Chorus]
This ink-stained linen, a tether I can't break,
The silent hum of secrets, for memory's sake.

[Bridge]
They say time unravels, but this fabric holds its seam,
A quiet, stubborn pattern, more visceral than a dream.
This fragile parchment, a sacred geometry,
Holds the weight of an 'us,' refusing to be free,
A quiet dignity, in what we couldn't say.

[Outro]
My hand still holds this moment, in ochre lines defined,
A complicated worth, stubbornly intertwined.