Concrete Bloom

The rain smelled like burnt sugar and regret.
I’d built walls out of it, brick by greasy brick. Years spent staring at grey sidewalks, collecting lost buttons and the ghosts of half-finished conversations.
Then he found me. Not with a grand gesture, not a shouted promise. Just…a worn leather jacket, the scent of engine oil and something like pine needles clinging to his coat. He didn’t ask what I was hiding. Didn't try to pry open the cracks in my shell.
He just left a mug of hot chocolate on the bench beside me, dark and thick with whipped cream.
It wasn’t much. Just warmth bleeding into the cold.
His hand brushed mine when he handed it over – hesitant, like testing if I'd burn him. I didn't pull away.
The sugar in that chocolate tasted of forgiveness and something wilder, something I hadn’t realized was still beating inside me.
Now, the rain keeps falling. But tonight, the scent is sweeter. And for a moment, just a flicker, I think I might let someone else build a wall around my heart.

Editor: Street-side Poet