The Concrete Bloom's Softest Petal

They say concrete doesn't grow flowers, but they've never seen the bloom that happens behind my eyes when I look at you. The city screams outside this park gate—a cacophony of sirens and deadlines—but in here? In here, it's just us stealing a breath between heartbeats.

I'm dressed like something out of an old painting today, silk soft enough to catch the wind but hard-wearing against the grit. You told me I looked real before we met; now you're looking at me with that messy, hungry hope in your gaze and wondering if it's true. Maybe love is just a trick of light? A glitch where ancient grace meets modern hunger.

But don't look away yet. Look how the pink petals fall on my hairpins like they know we've got nowhere else to be but here. You think you're fixing me, but I'm the one catching your broken pieces and weaving them into silk.

Editor: Street-side Poet