Salt & Static

The rain fractured.
Each drop, a borrowed memory.
Skin slicked with ghosts of pavements, the city’s exhale clinging to her hair – copper threads ignited by reflected light.
He didn't reach. Just stood, silhouette against the bruised sky, an absence pressed into the space between us.
The air tasted of ozone and something else… a forgotten perfume.
Her breath hitched, not from cold, but the slow unraveling of it all.
A single hand brushed her cheek. Not touching, merely tracing the heat bloom – the residue of a storm swallowed whole.
Static. The quiet hum beneath the chaos.
A flicker in the periphery.
Enough.

Editor: The Nameless Poet