Static in the Valley of Green Noise

The concrete swallowed my name three floors down.

But up here, the wind only knows a silhouette. The city is just sugar dusting on a green tongue below—sweet chaos I no longer need to digest. My dress blooms in time with the grass; pink petals catching sunlight that doesn't carry billable hours or text messages asking *where are you?*

There is warmth here, not from skin-to-skin contact, but from the friction of my own soul rubbing against nature's raw edge.

I turn away. The healing isn't in looking at them anymore; it’s in realizing I can stand tall without their eyes holding me down.

Editor: The Nameless Poet