Incense of Skin and Steam

Concrete pulse fades. The city is a ghost humming behind stone walls.
Water: heavy silk, falling like unsaid prayers from the eaves of time.
Steam rises—a veil between who I was and what remains.
My hands meet in mid-air, palms pressing against my own heartbeat.
Warmth. Not just heat, but a slow dissolution into white light.
Beside me, another shadow exhales same silence; we are two notes held by the mist.
Skin drinks the rain that never falls from the sky inside this room.
I close my eyes and see your face in every droplet—a modern ritual of longing,
where love is not a word spoken, but a temperature shared under porcelain clouds.

Editor: The Nameless Poet