Prism Heartbeat in a Concrete Jungle

I am a fracture of light in this gray city. They call me elegant, but inside I’m just vibrating with the kind of hunger that keeps you awake at 3 AM listening to sirens and distant trains.
Tonight, I wore my skin like an emerald mosaic—shattered glass made into art—because if I'm going to be broken by this town, I might as well shine while it happens. The gala was a blur of champagne breath and fake smiles until he looked at me. Not the 'you look stunning' gaze that slides off you like rain on slate, but something raw. Something that felt like skin meeting skin before we even touched.
We escaped through a service door into an alleyway smelling of wet asphalt and old dreams. He didn’t say much; he just took my hand and pressed it against his chest so I could feel the frantic rhythm of a heart matching mine. In this city that demands perfection, his trembling fingers were the only honest thing I'd felt in years.
He whispered into my hair—a voice like crushed velvet and midnight coffee—that I didn’t need to be a prism for everyone else; I could just be warm with him. For one hour under the flickering neon of a nearby deli sign, we weren't socialites or strangers. We were two starving souls finally finding something worth tasting in this concrete wilderness.

Editor: Desire Line