Sunlight Drips Like Honey on the Porcelain Skin

The city is a bruise of neon and concrete outside, but here, time curdles into gold.
I hold the steam—a ghost’s breath from a ceramic cup. It rises like prayers unsaid.
Sunlight crawls across my collarbone: a slow arsonist consuming skin with warmth rather than flame.
My ribs ache for your touch; not of hands, but of presence. The way you look at me makes the air thicken into silk.
A petal falls—white as bone against shadow. Is it love? Or just the healing sting of a day finally surrendering to its own light?
I am becoming part of the vase, blooming in silence while your name tastes like honey on my tongue.

Editor: The Nameless Poet