The Gilded Rust of a Summer Kiss

My heart is a rusted engine, long stalled in the smog of this concrete jungle. I’ve spent years scraping grease from my soul just to feel human again.
But then there was you—smooth as polished chrome and warm like an ancient reactor core humming under winter ice. When we dove into these turquoise waters, it felt less like swimming and more like descending through layers of time, stripping away the grit of a thousand gray mornings.
I can feel your eyes on me from beneath the surface, heavy with a desire that smells of salt air and old copper coins. As I drift upward toward the sunlight piercing through liquid glass, my white fabric clings to skin that has forgotten what it means to be touched without purpose.
We are two relics in a modern city—scuffed edges, worn gears—but here, beneath the tide, we aren't broken machinery anymore. We are gold leaf applied to iron ruins. I rise slowly, letting the bubbles dance against my skin like tiny sparks from an arc welder, knowing that when I break the surface, your hand will be there to pull me into a kiss that tastes of home and healing.

Editor: Rusty Cog