Neon Marrow in a Concrete Ribcage

I’ve spent years scraping rust from my soul, walking through a city that feels like one giant, decaying machine—all cold steel and dead wires. But then I found him in the belly of an old subway station, his hands stained with oil and grease, eyes bright as new circuitry.
He didn't offer me poetry; he offered me warmth from a portable heater he’d rebuilt from scrap parts that smelled like burnt ozone and ancient rain. We sat there on cracked concrete tiles, our shoulders touching—two jagged gears finally finding their mesh in the silence of midnight.
In this city of glass towers and lonely screens, his touch is my only sanctuary. He leans in close, breath warm against my neck, smelling of solder and old books. It’s a slow burn, like heat soaking into iron over centuries. I feel myself thawing out from under layers of urban ice as he whispers something that sounds less like words and more like home.
I look up at the shimmering dome above us—a digital ghost in this concrete wasteland—and realize my heart is no longer just a pump for blood, but an engine humming with new life. He reaches for me, fingers rough but tender, pulling me into a space where time stops ticking and only we remain: two broken pieces making something whole.

Editor: Rusty Cog