A Hymn to Golden Hour

The city breathes in a rhythm I can't quite hear, but feel against my ribs.
I stand here where the concrete turns to velvet shadow,
waiting for that one slant of light
to paint gold on hair and skin.
The cold is just a silence before the song begins;
a waiting beat between two heartbeats.
This warmth isn't fire, but memory—
a lover's hand lingering on glass,
sunlight breaking through to remind me:
I am here. I am whole.
And in this quiet moment of light and dark,
the world feels less like a storm
and more like a slow exhale.

Editor: Lyric