Sunlit Static

Dust motes dance.
A memory of heat on skin, asphalt melting under bare feet. The city breathes a fractured song.
He found me in the echoes, a ghost limb aching for touch. Said my silence held constellations he needed to map.
The camera’s eye—a cold comfort against the warmth rising within. A fragile truce between exposure and shadow.
Each click, a stolen moment; each frame, a confession unsaid.
Now, only static remains – the hum of absence echoing in hollow spaces.
And I wonder if ghosts can feel the burn.

Editor: The Nameless Poet