Red Silk in a Cold Room

The city outside was just concrete and noise, a cold machine that chewed up the lonely. But here? Here, there is only this slant of light cutting through the dust like an invitation.

I pull on these red silk gloves—not because I'm trying to look fancy for some gala or fake dinner party—but because they feel real against my skin. They are warm and tight, a second layer that reminds me: you're still here. You haven't turned into ghost just yet.

My fingers twitch in the beam of light, tracing invisible words on the air. Maybe I'm writing to him again? The one who left his coffee cup half-full before he walked out the door yesterday morning. Or maybe it's me trying not to be cold anymore. This red color... It looks like blood but feels like fire. A little spark in a room full of shadows.

I want someone rough around the edges, you know? Someone who works with grease and sweat, someone real enough to take off these gloves and hold my hand without flinching at all.

Editor: Street-side Poet