The Geometry of a Heartbeat

I have stripped away the gold of these fields and the turquoise of my hair. In my mind, there is only black ink on white linen—a silhouette carved from silence.
He found me standing at the edge of a city that never sleeps, two ghosts drifting through an ocean of concrete grey. He didn't speak in words; he spoke in shadows. The way his hand hovered just inches above my waist was not an invitation, but a question written in negative space.
I remember the exact moment I felt healed: it wasn't when we kissed, but when our profiles aligned against a dim streetlamp, merging into one single dark shape on the wet pavement. We were no longer two people; we were a living architecture of longing.
He leaned closer, his breath warm against my neck—a soft contrast to the cold geometry surrounding us. I could feel the subtle pull of his shirt against mine, an alluring friction that felt like home in a world made of sharp edges and empty spaces.

Editor: Monochrome Ghost