Breath of an Amber Afternoon

Steel blades spinning white noise into a lullaby.
I am skin and sunlight, draped in cotton that remembers your touch. The air carries the scent of ozone and old books—a city breathing outside my window while we hold time hostage.
You didn't speak; you only leaned against the doorframe with eyes like dusk settling over a harbor. I felt the wind from the fan tangle my hair into secrets, pulling me toward your silence.
We are two islands in an ocean of concrete. A single glance—sharp as glass, soft as rain—and suddenly the room is no longer empty.
Your hand on my shoulder: a sudden anchor. I am not just sitting; I am arriving home.

Editor: The Nameless Poet