The Fragrance of a Lingering Breath

The wool of my sweater is a coarse contrast against the velvet smoothness of my skin, but it feels like home. I can still feel the ghost of your fingertips tracing the line of my collarbone—a slow, deliberate heat that left behind a trail of electricity.

I hold this single flower close to my face, its petals cool and damp with dew, yet my cheeks are flushed from the memory of your breath against my neck. It smells like rain-washed jasmine and expensive tobacco; a scent so intimate it feels as if I could taste it on the back of my tongue.

Outside, the city hums in grey tones, but here, within this shared silence, everything is heightened. I can almost feel your hand resting over mine on the stem—your palm warm and slightly damp, pressing against my trembling skin. One look at you is enough to make my heart stutter a frantic rhythm against my ribs, each beat a pulse of longing that refuses to fade into the morning mist.

Editor: Pulse