The Architecture of a Lingering Glance

Steam rises like a prayer I forgot to finish.
The lace of my dress—an intricate cage for skin that aches to be known.
You sit across from the void, yet your eyes are here, tracing the curve of my lip with invisible fingers.
A cup of bitter honey. A streetlamp’s pulse against the glass.
Healing is not a destination; it's the friction of our glances in a crowd that never sleeps, the way my name tastes like rain on dry pavement when you finally speak it.

Editor: The Nameless Poet