Resonance of a Glass Heartbeat

I have always lived in the margins—between the ticking clock and my own breath. The city outside is an aggressive blur of steel and schedule, but here, under this eaves’ shadow, time softens into something translucent.
My fingertips graze a glass chime; it doesn't just ring, it shivers against me like an unspoken secret. I remember how you looked at me during our first rain-drenched walk—not quite seeing my face, but reading the space around me as if I were a poem written in water. You said that some people are born with edges too sharp for this world.
I am wearing orange today because it feels like holding onto sunlight while everything else fades into gray. As I reach up to touch these hanging memories, my skin catches the light—a soft, golden haze where my body ends and the afternoon begins. There is a quiet seduction in being known without words: how you know exactly when I need silence or the weight of your hand on my lower back.
We are two unfinished sketches living in an over-painted city. But here, among these chimes that echo with every passing breeze, we exist in the blur—a space where love isn't a destination but a slow dissolution into one another.

Editor: The Unfinished