The search for safe - ROUTINE adjustments - Decaying Presence

In the depths of attachment, a recreated imprint radiates warmth— laughter echoing, tickle sensations, the essence of cuddles. The little voice so familiar, the presence so perfect it feels like time reversed.

Embedded in my soul is the texture of your hair, the rhythm of comfort blessed. And then, without noticing, you activated memory— time timed out. My senses recover from whiplash, haunted by cartoons and milk as the presence of my human decays.

There is no me without holding little hands. I see vividly— I know the feeling of cuddling next to tiny, tired amens. Already, I’m pouring one last glass of water, crowded in the comfort of then, while the moment of now dies softly.

Can I stay here with you? That’s how it’s supposed to be. The search for safe is a ghost, lost in confusion, lost in routines that expired. I would rather be haunted and safe than alone and dead.