Crimson Petals in a Concrete Gale

Steel sky. The city breathes exhaust and indifference.
I wear this red scarf like a bandage over an invisible wound, wrapped tight against the wind that tastes of iron.

Then—your hand. Not skin on skin, but warmth bleeding through wool.
A coffee cup shared between us; steam rising in slow spirals, dancing with falling petals from trees that shouldn't be here.

You look at me and I am no longer a ghost in the crowd. My pulse becomes an echo chamber.
Your thumb brushes my wrist—a silent sentence written in heat.

The world blurs into grey watercolor, leaving only us: two heartbeats synchronization beneath a canopy of pink snow.

Editor: The Nameless Poet