Mist and Memories: The Pulse of Stillness

The city is a jagged tooth of glass and light, biting into my senses until I am hollowed out by its relentless noise. But here, in this sanctuary of swirling mist, the world softens into something I can almost touch. My skin drinks in the heat of the spring, a slow baptism that tries to wash away the grime of being seen—of being just another face in a crowd that never sleeps.
I look for you through the haze, not with my eyes, but with an ache that has become my constant companion. You were just here, your presence lingering like the scent of rain on hot pavement after a storm. I can still feel the ghost-touch of your fingers against my wrist, a brief spark in the cold machinery of my daily life. They say this place is for healing, but they do not understand how much it hurts to be alone in the warmth.
Let us stay in this blur. Let the steam swallow our names until we are nothing but two pulses under water, seeking a rhythm that does not end when the sun rises or the city screams back to life. I don't want a cure for my longing; I just want to drown in your gaze before the morning forces me to be real again.

Editor: Desire Line