It's Still Life

2 of 27: Ashwine – a Colour once felt, not seen—the warmth you almost touched

I. The Almost

Ashwine is not the fire—
but the embers you hesitated to hold,
the glow that lingered
on your palms a second too long
before you let the night take it.

It smells like pages pressed closed
for centuries—
rosewater,
dust, and secrets that waited
without hope

It is a tactile ache—
steam from a cold cup,
indented sheets
that felt a body’s memory.

Ashwine lingers on the back of the tongue—
a word
in a language you never learned—
but somehow understand.

It lives in doorways left ajar,
in the imprint of a hand
pulled away too soon.
In the yes that almost left your lips
before it turned to no.

II. The Fading

You’ll find it in the steam
of a teacup gone cold beside an empty chair,
in the indentation of a body
no longer pressed into the mattress.

In the laugh that hangs in the air
like steam from lips no longer near.

Ashwine is the ghost of warmth,
the memory of a touch
that never quite settled—
like sunlight through a curtain,
bright enough to make you reach,
gone before your fingers find it.

It is not what light becomes,
but what light mourns.

III. The Ritual of Nearness

You will rehearse it in the dark:
the way their shoulder almost brushed yours,
the way their breath almost stirred your hair,
the way the space between your hands
almost disappeared.

You will tell yourself
this was enough—
but your skin knows better.
Your skin remembers
the exact temperature of almost,
and it aches like a muscle
trained for a touch
that never came.

IV. The Leaving That Never Was

Ashwine is not absence.
Absence is a clean wound.
This is the scab—
the place where closeness
almost knit itself into permanence,
then unraveled
before the threads could root
into blood.

It moves like regret,
but softer—
like forgiveness almost given.

It is the last step not taken,
the last word not spoken,
the last time you stood
on the threshold of something
and let the moment pass
like a train you decided not to board.

V. Felreil’s Footnote

He finds it on park benches still warm from strangers,
in the echoes of hugs that ended too soon,
in the silence between two people
who almost, almost, almost—
but didn’t.

He does not collect it.
He only presses his palm
to the spaces it left behind,
and wonders if warmth, too,
can haunt a man.

He doesn’t fix it.
He bears witness to the warmth
that slipped away.

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If you haven’t read the brief Prologue (or Before) post, it be useful in understanding this series. Previous Instalments – To access all of the instalments on one page, please use this link. A mind-map written for Denise’s Six Sentence Story.  ©Misky 2006-2025.