Crimson Static

Dust motes dance.
A fractured light, a borrowed room. The scent of rain on asphalt clings to skin – phantom touch.
His ghost lingers in the hollow of my collarbone, a pressure point I trace with trembling fingertips.
Each heartbeat, a muted echo in this vast emptiness.
We built cathedrals from stolen glances,
and whispered promises into the static between songs.
Now? Only silence.
A chipped teacup, a forgotten melody – fragments of a dream dissolving at dawn.
The city breathes outside, oblivious to the wreckage within.
I trace the curve of my own lips, tasting ash and regret.
He said I was fire. A slow burn. Perhaps he feared being consumed.

Editor: The Nameless Poet