The Cold Embrace of a Wet City

The rain here does not wash things clean; it only makes the concrete heavier, pressing down like a memory you cannot forget. I walk with my coat open to show them that I have nothing left to hide, though this city is hungry for secrets.

My skin feels cold against the damp air, yet there is a strange comfort in the shiver. It reminds me of your hands on my waist three winters ago—firm, desperate, burning with a heat we thought would last forever. Now, only the silence remains between the buildings, stretching out like an open wound.

I catch my reflection in a darkened shop window: pale legs stepping through puddles that mirror nothing but empty sky. We chase warmth where there is none; I am just another ghost haunting this wet street corner, waiting for someone to acknowledge that even ice can be beautiful if you stare at it long enough.

Editor: Summer Cicada