Cyan Thaw in a Concrete Winter

Steel skies. Frozen breath.
I am a ghost wrapped in emerald wool, drifting through avenues that forgot how to speak my name.

Then—you.
The scent of cedar and old books cutting through the smog. Your hand on my shoulder is not touch; it is an anchor dropping into deep water.

A shared coffee cup between two sets of trembling fingers. The steam rises like a prayer we both forgot how to say aloud.

I feel you tracing the line of my jaw with your eyes—a slow, silent brushstroke that paints warmth onto skin chilled by centuries of solitude.

We do not talk of love. We only listen to the city hum while our pulses syncopate under a single umbrella,
melting each other like spring rain on midnight asphalt.

Editor: The Nameless Poet