The Architecture of After-Hours
By 6 PM, I had dismantled three board members' egos with
The Silence Between Heartbeats
I have learned to read you in the spaces between words, where
The Temperature of a Silk Silence
I have spent three years mastering the art of being an ornament.
The Neon Hum of a Quiet Heart
I have always felt like an echo in this city—heard but
The Neon Coffin of a Dying Heartbeat
I stand beneath the electric sky of this city, where neon signs
The Upward Drift of a Quiet Afternoon
The city hums beneath us like a distant engine, but here in
The Alchemist's Quiet Confession
They think I am just another face in the neon tide of
The Last Frame of a Golden Hour Kiss
I can feel the edges of my world beginning to fray. The
The Color of Your Quietest Hour
I used to think the city was a machine designed to make
The Amber Resonance of a Rainy Tuesday
The city breathes in neon pulses, but here—within the sanctuary of
The Neon Interval Between Us
He thinks he’s being subtle, standing just a fraction too close
Neon Halos and Lukewarm Coffee
I’ve spent three years perfecting the art of looking like I
