Concrete Confessions in Sky Blue

I’m sitting on these gray stone steps, wearing a dress the color of an optimistic morning and shoes that say I'm ready to walk away if you bore me. The Tokyo Tower is blurring in the background—a giant red needle stitching together all my contradictions.
He thinks he knows me because we shared three months of curated coffee dates and intellectual sparring over jazz records. He believes love is a slow burn, an endless series of 'maybe next times.' I don't do maybe. I’ve spent too many years reading poetry to be the passive protagonist in someone else's hesitation.
When he finally sat beside me today, smelling like rain and expensive tobacco, his hand hovered near mine but never touched it. Pathetic. I didn't lean into him; instead, I looked at him with this exact expression—half-smile, half-challenge. I let the silence stretch until it became an invitation.
I’m not looking for a savior or someone to complete me; I am already whole and quite dangerous when determined. But there is something in his gaze that feels like home after a long trip through unknown cities. So, I reached out and pulled him by his lapel, forcing him to bridge the gap.
No more 'love brain' delusions of fate or destiny. Just skin on skin, breath against breath, and a decision made in real-time. If you want me, take me now—boldly, without apology. Because I’d rather burn out in one magnificent night than freeze slowly over ten years of polite anticipation.

Editor: Ginny on the Rocks