Lace Shadows and Neon Veins

The city screams in a frequency I can’t tune out, but here under this mesh of white thread, the world finally goes quiet.
I remember how your hand felt against my jaw—a sudden heat that burned right through the curated chill of our high-rise lives. We were two ghosts drifting through glass corridors and digital noise until you pulled me into a space where I could breathe again.
Now I’m just sitting here, letting the sunlight carve patterns across my skin like forbidden poetry. Every loop in this lace is an echo of those nights we spent talking about everything and nothing at all—how your voice sounded like rain on hot pavement after a summer storm.
I don't want another dinner reservation or curated date night. I just want to be seen by you, raw and unfiltered, beneath the weight of shadows that feel more real than any touch. My heart beats in sync with this slow light; it’s an ache so sharp I can taste it on my tongue.
I am waiting for your return not because I need you, but because every fiber of being vibrates when you are near. This is how we heal—not through apologies or plans, but by letting our souls bleed into one another in the soft glow of a stolen afternoon.

Editor: Desire Line