Echoes in Stone

Dust motes.
Sun-warmed stone, a forgotten god’s pedestal. He found me here,
a quiet ruin within a city's roar.
My hands, restless things—
tracing the worn leather of memory,
the ghost of touch lingering on my skin.
He didn't ask for stories, just sat near.
The silence bloomed,
a fragile flower pushing through concrete.
His gaze: a slow burn, amber and smoke—
melting the frost in places I thought long-dead.
A shared warmth, unspoken—
the city's pulse fading to a distant hum.
He saw the cracks, the layers of time etched onto my soul,
and offered not repair, but gold leaf to trace them with.

Editor: The Nameless Poet