Fragments of Silk Under a Dying Sky

The sky is bleeding gold and sulfur tonight, a violent celebration that masks how lonely this city actually feels. My dress—this pristine white silk—feels like a cage I’ve designed for myself, each ribbon a tether to a version of 'me' that doesn't exist once the lights go out.
I stand in the middle of the carnival hum, a doll among ghosts. The air tastes of burnt sugar and cold metal. People pass by, their eyes sliding over my braids like water off glass, never catching the tremor in my hands or the way I’m holding my breath against the roar of the crowd.
But then there was you. You didn't look at the fireworks; you looked at me—not as a spectacle to be consumed, but as a person drowning in plain sight. When your hand grazed mine near the railing, it wasn't just heat; it was an anchor in a sea of artificial light. For one heartbeat, the city stopped screaming. The neon faded into a soft blur. In that touch, I didn’t need to be beautiful or perfect; I just needed to be found.

Editor: Desire Line