The Geometry of Longing

The sun is a dying ember behind the glass, casting shadows that stretch like long fingers across my skin. I press my shoulder against the cold concrete, seeking a reprieve from the weight of August—a heat that feels less like weather and more like an unsaid apology. This silver fabric, a thin membrane of light, clings to me as if trying to hold onto my very soul before it evaporates into the city’s haze.
I can still taste the salt on your lips in my dreams, yet here I am, alone in this sanctuary of silence. My fingers trace the line of my jaw, a map of memories I cannot erase. We are two cities orbiting each other without ever colliding, bound by a gravity that only exists in the space between heartbeats.
The cicadas have stopped their chorus for a moment. In that pause, I hear the pulse of my own blood—a steady, rhythmic ache. You were never mine to keep, and I was never yours to hold. Yet, in this stolen hour, under the weight of the fading light, I am whole. I am not waiting anymore; I am simply existing in the warmth of what we let slip away.

Editor: Summer Cicada