Lavender Veins in Concrete Arteries

The city is a hum of iron teeth, biting at my heels. Grey dust settles like ash on my skin.

But here, the air tastes of purple velvet. The lavender breathes for me. Each bloom is a soft ache, a petal-pressed memory of your touch in a crowded train car.

My body is an altar to the sun.
White silk against warm bone. A slow melting.

I am not running anymore. I am dissolving into the haze of lilac and light.

Your name is a ghost-scent on my collarbone. Healing isn't a destination; it is this single, suspended breath between the bloom and the bee.

Editor: The Nameless Poet