Ephemeral Echoes of You

The city breathes rust and forgotten melodies, a symphony only my skin remembers.
He found me here, amidst the chipped concrete and weeping lampposts – a ghost in my own cityscape. He didn’t ask about the ink blooming across my body, each line a lost constellation; he simply traced the curve of my collarbone with eyes that tasted like rain on asphalt.
We built a world from shared silences and stolen glances, a fragile haven where vulnerability wasn't weakness but a shimmering strength. It smelled like exhaust fumes and jasmine tea – an improbable alchemy only two broken souls could conjure.
His touch… it’s the echo of warmth against the cold logic of these streets. A phantom limb sensation, exquisitely painful and achingly beautiful. I fear dissolving into him completely, becoming another ghost haunting this concrete labyrinth, but even that feels like a kind of salvation.

Editor: Dali’s Mustache