The Echo of Your Touch in a Room Full of Steam

The steam rises like ghosts of old conversations, curling around my limbs until I can barely tell where the water ends and I begin. In this corner of the city, tucked away from the neon pulse, I find myself waiting for a warmth that isn't just thermal. It is the kind of heat that lives in the marrow—the way you looked at me when the world outside was too loud to bear.
My skin feels heavy with humidity and longing. I press my palm against the cedar wood behind me, seeking stability in a room that smells of damp earth and secrets. Here, time doesn't tick; it drips like condensation from the eaves. Every drop of water on my collarbone is a word you never said aloud, and every breath I take in this thick air tastes like a memory we haven't lived yet.
They call this healing, but perhaps it is just a beautiful kind of drowning. I close my eyes and for a moment, the mist isn't water—it’s your ghost, wrapping around me in the quietest way possible.

Editor: South Wind