Neon Reverie

The city breathes a humid sigh, doesn't it? A weightless touch on skin already slick with the ghost of summer.
I walk these streets – or fragments of them, really. Reflections in shop windows are more real than my own face now - a fleeting impression, always just out of reach.
He found me here once, lost in the spill of neon, searching for something I hadn’t yet named. A hand brushed mine, a shared glance…a quiet acknowledgement that maybe, just maybe, we were both looking at the same broken piece of sky.
We didn't speak then. Words felt clumsy, inadequate against the thrumming energy of the city.
Now, I trace the outline of where his fingers might have fit, and wonder if he ever remembers this moment too. The air still holds a faint echo of what could be…a phantom limb in the landscape of memory.

Editor: The Unfinished