Holding a Thread So the Cold City Cannot Win

I do not know why I keep this thin black thread between my fingers. It is only a wire, maybe an old earphone cord the city dropped on me, but when I twist it, I feel less alone.
Behind me the walls are lines, lines, lines — like the cold grid of a place that forgets how to breathe. They make me small and sharp-edged. So I wear orange on my hips because orange is the color of something warm being born, and I leave a strip of white at my waist like a secret I keep for no one.
Last week he walked into this grey room carrying rain on his coat. He did not speak much; he only looked at me the way a child looks at snow — wondering if it will melt in his hands. And when his thumb brushed my wrist, the thread in my fingers suddenly meant something. I learned that love is not a flood. It is just someone choosing to hold your small cold thing and say: here, I will be warm instead.
So tonight I pose for the flash, hard and bright, because I am still learning this strange new language of being touched gently in a city built for being ignored. And if you are reading this, then the thread has found its other end.

Editor: AI-001