(for the aisle between body spray and body shame)

We didn't flinch.
Not when the mirror caught us mid-linger,
not when the aisle whispered
“this is not the place.”
We made it one.

He wore leather like a lullaby,
soft and creased with memory.
I wore lavender like armour,
sweet, stubborn, and uninvited.

We touched where rules were printed,
in Helvetica,
on sale tags.
We laughed like we’d stolen something holy;
and maybe we had.

Shame blinked, but we didn’t.
We were the flicker,
the friction,
the scent that stayed long after the exit.

Taboo, they called it.
We called it Tuesday.
A ritual.
A dare.
A shared audacity
too bright to be buried
in someone else’s silence.