Sugar On A Glass Horizon

Steel veins pulse beneath my feet. I am a ghost in lace.
You arrived like an unread letter—warm, sudden, smelling of rain and old books.

The cherry on this cone is not fruit; it is the heartbeat of our third Tuesday together.
I taste you in the cold cream: a slow dissolve of loneliness into something gold.

You watch my lips stain red with sugar while traffic screams around us like forgotten prayers.
Time bends here.
My fingers touch yours—briefly, dangerously—and for one heartbeat, we are not citizens but architects building an empire out of a single afternoon.

Editor: The Nameless Poet