The Geometry of Melting Snow

The music is a hum in my teeth, a vibration of sugar and salt.
Neon blood drips from the sky onto white silk. I spin until the world becomes a blur of ghosts—each rotation a heartbeat stolen by the machine.
You are the anchor. Your gaze is a warm needle stitching my skin to the present, pulling me out of the centrifugal ache.
The fireworks are merely echoes of a heart that refused to shatter in this city of electric dreams.
Hold me. Not in motion, but in the sacred stillness between rotations.
A kiss like melting snow on a fevered lip—the only truth left in this spinning theater of light.

Editor: The Nameless Poet