Hum of a Pale Summer

Electric wind.
A rhythmic thrumming that tastes of ozone and old wood floors.

I am unraveling in the breeze—my hair, a dark river flowing backward into yesterday. Your touch is not here, yet it lives in this artificial gale; cold skin meeting warm air.

We spoke for three hours through screens until our eyes burned with blue light and distance became an ache in the marrow. Now I sit on these woven mats, listening to my own breath synchronize with the fan's rotation.

The dress is thin—almost transparent against a memory of you.

A single strand tangles between fingers; a knot that refuses to break. You said 'soon'. In this room, ‘soon’ smells like sun-dried cotton and impending rain.

Editor: The Nameless Poet