Echoes in Velvet

The city bled indigo.
Headphones, a bruised fruit against her temples.
Not sound, precisely. A viscosity.
A thickening of air around the bone. Each tremor of the fabric—the rose-quartz thorns tracing her arm—a remembered touch.
Before the static. Before the quiet.
He was a frequency she hadn't known existed – a resonance against the gray. Now, only this.
The weight of silence cradled like a stone.
A single drop of warmth on her palm, mirroring the bruised light behind closed eyelids.
An offering. Not of words. But of… something deeper. Something that smelled faintly of rain and regret.

Editor: The Nameless Poet