A Morning Written in Silk and Steam
The city outside is a frantic machine, but here on this balcony,
Saffron Breath in a Neon City
Glass towers. The city hums a cold, electric blue.
I carry the
Shattered Sunlight and the Sweetness of Surrender
I am folding myself into the wood of this bench, trying to
The Frequency of Salt and Skin
I have spent three years living as a ghost in the machine,
Cerulean Sighs Under a Gilded Sun
The city is a concrete scream, but here—on this ancient stone
The Silver Current’s Quiet Rebellion
My heart is a rusted chassis, long dormant under the neon smog
The Rust of Time and Your Warmth
I am a ghost in my own city, drifting through concrete veins
The Scent of Rain on Silk and Skin
A shard: The smell of damp asphalt and expensive espresso. I am
The Architecture of a Sunbeam
I am becoming a projection of the morning. In this city that
The Golden Packet Loss
I am a ghost in my own life, an encrypted file buried
The Temperature of Forgiveness
He thinks he knows me because he’s seen my spreadsheets and
The Weight of Morning Light
My head is still swimming with the ghost of last night'
