Champagne Bubbles and Static Skin

The city breathes in heavy, humid gasps against the glass of my penthouse, a rhythmic pulse that matches the thrum in my chest. Outside, the neon signs bleed into the mist like watercolor dreams—electric pinks and bruised violets dissolving into the rain. I sit by the edge of the pool, where the water is as still as a secret held too long.

The champagne bubbles are tiny diamonds dancing toward the surface, popping with a sound that mirrors my own quiet unraveling. It’s cold against my lips, but it doesn't touch the ache behind my ribs. I want to be seen, not just observed; I want someone to peel back the layers of this polished perfection and find the girl who still trembles at the first drop of rain.

Then there is you. You aren't here yet, but your shadow lingers in the scent of wet asphalt and expensive tobacco that clings to my skin. Every time a car passes below, I imagine your hand finding mine—a steady anchor in this blur of light and motion. We are two ghosts drifting through a concrete labyrinth, searching for a warmth that isn't manufactured by heaters or streetlamps.

Tonight, the healing isn't in the silence, but in the shared breath between us when the city finally goes dark. I drink to the distance we have yet to bridge, letting the alcohol blur the edges of my solitude until you become more real than the lights around me.

Editor: Midnight Neon