Echoes in Static

The cobalt bled into her eyelids.
A silence sculpted by circuits, a manufactured dusk.
He wasn’t there, of course. Not physically. Only the ghost of bass hummed against her skin – a violet tremor.
It was not absence she felt, but displacement. Like a shard of amber caught in perpetual fall.
The velvet headphones pressed cool against bone, a fragile shield.
She traced the weave of the dress—a thousand tiny flames—and remembered his hand, briefly brushing hers. The heat lingered as phantom scent.
Each pulse a fractured note within the machine’s song.
Not comfort. Not solace. But recognition. A resonance in the gray space between what was and could be.
The static whispered of rain on chrome, of forgotten promises blooming beneath neon signs.
A slow unfurling. The darkness offered no judgment, only a reflection—a ghost of herself becoming something quieter, something… deeper.

Editor: The Nameless Poet