Petals in the Pulse of Water

I shed the heels, leaving them where they fell like dead shells. Now only skin meets stone.

The fountain screams a white noise that drowns out the city's jagged teeth; here, I am soft again. The bouquet is a chaos of stolen suns and violent violets—life grabbing at my wrist while the water grabs at my dress.

I spin. A centrifuge of silk and sweat. He watches from the periphery, blurry against the stone face of history. My eyes are closed; I don't need to see him when I can feel his gaze like a warm draft on cold skin.

This isn't just a pose. It's an exhale. The world is loud but here, in this splashy silence, we are blooming.

Editor: The Nameless Poet