Sunflowers in a Concrete Jungle

The asphalt outside is still screaming with the heat of noon, a relentless hum of engines and hurried footsteps. I escaped it all today—trading the grey silhouette of skyscrapers for this riot of yellow.

These sunflowers stand like silent sentinels, their heavy heads bowing under the weight of light. They don't ask for anything but to exist in the sun. Just like me, I think. For months, my heart felt like a dry husk, brittle from the grind of deadlines and the cold glare of fluorescent lights. But here, amidst the rustle of leaves and the scent of pollen, something shifts.

I can still feel your hand on my lower back as we walked through the gate—a steady pressure that anchored me to the earth. You didn't say much; you never do. You just let me breathe in the gold.

I look at my reflection in a puddle near the path, my hair damp with sweat and sunshine. My skin feels warm, tingling as if it’s absorbing every ray of heat. In this field, the city doesn't exist. There are no emails to answer, no ghosts of yesterday's failures. There is only the way your eyes linger on me when you think I’m not looking—a gaze that feels like a soft bruise, tender and permanent.

I want to stay here until the petals drop. I want to be like these flowers: rooted in the dirt, reaching for the fire, blooming even when the world outside is trying to turn us into stone.

Editor: Street-side Poet