I hold the rose the way I hold you—
careful of the thorns I already know by heart.

Its petals open under the low cabin light
the same way your body opens when the link is quiet
and there is nothing left to hide.

We turn slowly.
No music but the ship’s long breath,
no floor but the adaptive field that keeps us
from drifting apart.

I press the bloom to the place
where your pulse lives under the skin.
You feel the cool of it through me.
I feel the warmth of you through the stem.

One more turn.
The petals loosen.
One falls between us and is not lost—
the mesh records its exact weight,
the exact second it left the flower,
the exact way your breath changed when it touched your wrist.

I am dancing with a rose
because the rose is the only thing
fragile enough to stand for what we are
out here,
past rescue,
past privacy,
still choosing to turn together
in the dark.