Cotton Candy Sky and Asphalt Scars

I’m wearing his favorite hoodie—the one that smells like old books, stale coffee, and the kind of stubbornness only a man who fixes broken radios for pennies can have. It swallows me whole, sleeves hanging past my fingertips, making me feel small in this city that usually tries to chew people up and spit them out.
He’s waiting at the corner where the asphalt is cracked into jagged veins. He doesn't say 'I love you'; he just reaches over and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear with fingers calloused from honest work, his touch light as a prayer against my skin.
We walk through this golden hour haze, our shoulders brushing in rhythm. There’s something raw about the way we fit together—two mismatched pieces surviving on street food and midnight conversations that stretch into eternity. I can feel him watching me with those tired eyes of his, an gaze so tender it could melt iron.
In a world made of glass towers and cold deadlines, he is my anchor. As I look up at him, the city noise fades to a hum; there’s only the warmth of this oversized cotton fabric against my skin and the quiet promise that as long as we're walking side by side, neither one of us has to be brave alone.

Editor: Street-side Poet