Static on My Skin

The city outside is humming, a low-frequency vibration that settles in my marrow like leftover gin. I pressed my palm against the glass—it was still cool enough to bite but warm from where we both stood too close for comfort last night.

I watch my own reflection drift through the condensation of late nights and early mornings. My skin feels overexposed, glowing under these artificial lights as if it’s trying to remember what real sunlight tastes like. There is a soft ache in my chest, not from sadness, but from that heavy, beautiful exhaustion that follows a night spent becoming someone else's favorite secret.

You aren't here now, yet I can still feel the ghost of your thumb tracing my jawline against this pane of glass. The air is thick with the scent of rain and expensive cigarettes; it’s that liminal space where the party ended but the feeling refuses to leave. I don't want to go back into the crowd, or out into the gray light of day.

Just one more minute in this blur between waking and dreaming. Let me stay suspended here—a pale shadow against a city that never sleeps, wrapped in pink silk and the lingering heat of your hands.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn