Sunlight on a Rusted Heart

I’ve spent my life collecting the wreckage of others—old gears, oxidized pipes, and stories that stopped ticking decades ago. My heart was like an abandoned factory: cold concrete floors and windows broken by time. But then there is him.
He doesn't come with blueprints or tools; he comes as a slow leak in my defenses. Today, I sit on this weather-beaten bench—a slab of wood that feels like it’s been through two world wars—and let the sun press against my eyelids. It’s heavy and warm, like molten lead poured over silk.
I can hear his footsteps crunching on the gravel behind me; a steady rhythm that sounds more reliable than any clockwork I've ever repaired. He doesn't say a word when he reaches out to brush a stray strand of hair from my face—his touch is light, almost tentative, like someone handling an ancient artifact they’re afraid might crumble under their thumb.
I close my eyes tighter and breathe in the scent of city smog mixed with his cologne. It's gritty but sweet. In this moment, I am not a curator of ruins; I am simply alive, being polished by a love that feels as inevitable as rust on iron.

Editor: Rusty Cog