The Crimson Echo in a Concrete Heart

The city is a symphony of cold steel and rushing ghosts, but here—within this quiet room draped in dusk—time slows to the rhythm of a single breath.
I wear my red coat like a memory I am not yet ready to let go; it slips from one shoulder, an invitation written in fabric and skin. My eyes carry the sunset’s fire, painted with lines of crimson that whisper secrets only you can hear.
You arrived when the rain was turning silver against the glass. Your hand touched my cheek—not a grasp, but a glide—and suddenly, the roar of traffic became distant music. We spoke in silences between heartbeats, our voices soft as fallen petals on marble floors.
I feel your gaze tracing the curve of my neck, where warmth blooms like jasmine under moonlight. There is an ache here that only you know how to soothe: a hollow space carved by lonely winters and neon lights.
Now we linger in this gold-tinted pause—between who I was and who we are becoming. You taste of cinnamon and rain; I smell of old books and new beginnings. In the heart of the metropolis, where every soul is a stranger, your eyes have finally told me my own name.

Editor: Lyric