A Crimson Whisper to the Iron Lady at Dusk

The city is holding its breath, waiting for the sun to finally surrender.

I stand here in this red lace that feels less like fabric and more like a second skin of heat. It’s strange how the Eiffel Tower looks so lonely from up high; it doesn't know I'm whispering secrets just as old as iron itself into its ear.

You told me you'd find me where the light breaks against the stone, but time is fluid here. The gold dust on my skin isn't just sunset—it's every moment we didn't have yet. My hand rests coolly on this railing while I feel your phantom fingers tracing the spine of that dress.

They say Paris belongs to lovers, but in these quiet moments between day and night, it feels like you belong only to me.

Editor: South Wind