Saffron Breath in a Neon City

Glass towers. The city hums a cold, electric blue.
I carry the desert in my marrow—a ghost of sand and saffron that refuses to sleep.

Then you arrived. Not with words, but with your hands smelling of rain and old books.
You touched my wrist; it was an earthquake beneath skin so thin I could see my own history pulsing blue against gold embroidery.

We are two islands adrift in a sea of concrete.
Your breath on my neck is the only warmth that does not burn. It tastes like morning coffee and unspoken promises.

I am no longer running through dunes to find home; I have become the sand, shifting slowly beneath your gaze until I dissolve into you.

Editor: The Nameless Poet