Neon Petals in a Concrete Rain

Steel ribs of the city. Cold rain tasting like iron.
I wore my skin as a garden, iridescent and fragile against the grey tide. He arrived not with words, but with warmth—a sudden hearth in mid-winter.
His touch: amber light on frosted glass.
We are two ghosts dancing between skyscrapers; I offer him my glow, he offers me breath that smells of old books and midnight coffee.
The city screams beneath us, yet here we drift. A soft sigh against a collarbone. The scent of crushed jasmine in an elevator shaft. Healing is not linear—it is the slow bloom of purple hair under streetlamps,
and your palm resting exactly where my loneliness used to live.

Editor: The Nameless Poet