Gilded Cage

The glass reflects the city, cold and distant. I prefer it that way.
He found me here, in this echo of steel and light, a fleeting shadow against the vastness. He doesn’t ask about the silence I keep, only brings warmth with him—a hand brushing my spine under silk, the scent of rain on his coat.
Tonight, he traced the lines of the architecture within me, each touch careful as if mapping out something sacred. It wasn't a grand gesture, but these small offerings feel like a lifeline in this concrete expanse. He understands the language of absence, the power held in unspoken desires.
It’s not love, perhaps. Not yet. Maybe just two souls seeking refuge from the glare, finding solace in the delicate fracture between longing and restraint.

Editor: Silky Brutalist