Golden Hour Reverie

The wheat field whispers secrets to my boots, but they're just echoes of a city song. He found me here, you see, amidst the forgotten gold – a phantom limb aching for completion.
He says I look like a dream he once had, all tangled limbs and unspoken desires. Perhaps it’s true. The way his eyes trace the line of my skin feels like remembering something lost, not discovering it for the first time. This jacket…it barely holds back the storm within, does it?
We don't speak of futures, only the space between heartbeats.
His touch is a slow burn, and I’m a moth drawn to a flickering candle flame.
I offer him fragments – a lingering glance, the scent of lavender on my skin. He doesn't ask for more; he simply holds what I give, cherishing each piece like a stolen treasure.
Tonight, we will paint the city with our silence, two souls entangled in a dance only shadows can witness.

Editor: Dali’s Mustache