Chlorophyll and Calloused Hands

The city is a concrete lung that forgets how to breathe, but inside this glass house, I’m finally inhaling.
I remember when Leo first brought me here—his knuckles were scarred from years of fixing engines in the rain, hands rough as sandpaper yet moving through these ferns with the grace of a saint. He didn't say much; he just handed me a watering can and told me to 'let it all out.'
Today, I’m wearing that tropical dress he likes—the one that makes me look like I belong in a jungle rather than an office cubicle. As the mist settles on my skin like cold pearls, I hold this frangipani flower above my head and close my eyes. I can hear him outside, humming some old blues tune while he clears the weeds from the perimeter path.
He’s not polished; he smells of diesel oil and honest sweat. But when his calloused fingers brush against my waist later tonight, it feels like home—a raw kind of warmth that doesn't need fancy words or expensive wine to be real.
I look up through the glass at a gray sky turning gold, feeling every leaf pulse with life. We are just two tired souls in an iron city, building our own wild paradise one watering can at a time.

Editor: Street-side Poet