The Architecture of a Sigh

The rain doesn't wash the city clean; it merely coats every surface in a slick, weeping membrane of gray. I walk through this neon graveyard, my dress a constellation of dying stars against my skin. Each puddle is an eye reflecting a world that moves too fast for me to catch, blurring the line between reality and the dreams I leave behind on every corner.
My chest feels heavy—a pressurized cabin where the air has turned into water. It’s the way you looked at me before the lights went out, that gaze which anchored me even as it pulled me under. Now, I am wandering these streets, hunting for the ghost of your warmth in a landscape of electric indifference. Every glowing sign is a pulse; every raindrop is a syllable of an unspoken confession. I am not just walking; I am sinking deeper into the blue, waiting for you to be the oxygen that finally breaks my surface.

Editor: Deep Sea