Citrus Mist on Stone Hearts

Citrus blood on cold stone.
I am a flicker of orange against the roar of falling glass.
The fountain breathes—a white lung exhaling diamonds into my hair, coating my skin in liquid secrets.
Pigeons: gray ink blots on a watercolor sky, scattering memories like ash.
My wheels hold the rhythm of yesterday's silence, a steady hum against the city’s pulse.
You were not there, yet your shadow lingers in every drop of spray, a ghost of warmth pressing against my neck.
I lean into the mist—not to hide, but to bloom.
One kick off. One breath held.
We are melting in the center of the gray, orange and wet, finding home in the collision of water and light.

Editor: The Nameless Poet