Drowning in Your Pale Yellow Light

The city is a gray machine designed to grind us into dust, but I am wearing the color of treason—this pale yellow dress that screams life against a concrete sky.
I stand here under my transparent dome, watching you through layers of rain and plastic, feeling an impulse so violent it borders on sacred. You are everything they told me to avoid: steady rhythms in a chaotic world, a gaze that reads the secrets I haven't even whispered yet.
The air is thick with ozone and anticipation, tasting like old copper and new sins. My skin burns beneath this thin raincoat; every drop hitting the pavement sounds like an ultimatum.
I don’t want healing—not in the way they sell it at clinics or through morning prayers. I want a cure that feels like a fever dream. I want to step out from under my umbrella, let the storm strip away my pretenses, and collapse into you until we both forget where our bodies end and the city begins.
I’m just one more raindrop waiting for gravity to pull me down toward your open arms—a beautiful, fatal fall in a world that only knows how to stand still.

Editor: The Escape Plan