Golden Hour Static

The city breathes out steam after the rain, doesn't it?
Everything slick and mirroring. I trace the line of my collarbone, remembering how your fingertips felt there just last night… or was it a dream spun from cheap whiskey and loneliness? It’s always blurred at the edges, these late nights.
You said you liked this top. Said it reminded you of something ancient, some goddess rising from smoke. I laughed then, but gods are allowed to be broken, aren't they?
I run a hand through my hair, the scent of the bar still clinging to me like regret. Maybe that’s why I keep chasing shadows in places like these - hoping for a warmth that isn’t just the bottom of a glass.
But then you messaged… and suddenly the static fades, leaving only a low hum where something real might be. Come over? The question hangs in the air, thick as smoke.

Editor: Midnight Neon