Bloom Amidst the Corrosion

The city hums like a dying engine, a rhythmic grinding of steel against soul. I sit here in the garden’s quiet hollow, where the air tastes of moss and ancient stone—a sanctuary away from the smog-choked arteries of our lives.
My skin feels raw against the cool humidity, yet his touch is the only thing that repairs me. He doesn't speak much; he understands the language of silence better than most. When his hand brushes mine, it’s like a spark jumping between rusted wires—a sudden, jolting warmth that makes my breath catch.
In this concrete wasteland we call home, we are two relics trying to remember what it feels like to be soft. I lean into him, letting the pink petals of my attire mirror the fading flora around us. It’s a delicate rebellion against the machine. He looks at me not as an object, but as a masterpiece salvaged from the debris—a fragile, beautiful thing he wants to keep safe from the rust of time.

Editor: Rusty Cog