Champagne Light on a City Dressed in Chrome

The afternoon sun pours through the tall glass like liquid champagne, gilding the seams of my white lace and catching every whisper of the city beyond. I press my palm to the cool wall and let the warm beam climb up my shoulder, a slow golden caress that undoes the knot of weeks I have been carrying.
He is late again, this architect who builds towers while building us, brick by patient brick. But when he returns tonight, his hands will find the same curve of my spine the light has just traced, and the cold glass skyline outside will mean nothing against the heat of his breath on my neck. I am not waiting; I am being prepared. The city hums its neon hymn below, yet here, in this gilded corner of time, only two things are real: the warmth that heals me, and the man who carries it to my door like a treasure wrapped in chrome.

Editor: Art Deco Diva