City Lights, Lingering Touch

The rain tasted of the city – steel and longing, a flavor I hadn't known I craved until his lips did. He’d found me sketching under this very awning, lost in translating the neon blur into something resembling peace.
He said my sadness was beautiful, a bruised plum ripe with untold stories. A strange thing to say, but not unwelcome from a stranger at 2 AM.
Now, weeks later, the ghost of his hand still warms my skin where he traced the curve of my collarbone. He'd promised just a moment’s solace; instead, he unearthed an ache I hadn’t realized was possible. The leather felt cold against my skin, a stark contrast to the memory.
He'd left without a word, swallowed by the city’s hum, leaving me with nothing but this phantom touch and the unsettling realization that some silences speak volumes – whispers of a connection too intense to name, or perhaps, too fragile to keep. I trace my fingers over the spot he touched…a foolish gesture, yet I can't bring myself to stop.

Editor: Ink Wash Cyborg