The Girl Who Caught The Fog On Her Cheekbone

I stood on the precipice where the city noise finally dies out, wrapped in a charcoal qipao that felt too heavy for a Tuesday but just right for remembering. Below me, the world was drowning in white mist—a soft blanket over the concrete jungle we usually fight to survive.

I turned my head and caught your eyes from across the railing. You weren't wearing armor today; no suit jacket stiffened by iron wills or cold ambition. Just you, looking at me with that raw hunger of a man who’d forgotten how to be hungry until now. The wind here doesn’t bite like it does down on the asphalt streets where we hustle and scrape for coins.

I smiled, not out of politeness, but because the cold air had finally thawed something deep inside my ribs. I wanted you to see that warmth behind these eyes, a soft light cutting through this foggy gray day. It’s funny how the highest peaks make us feel small enough to be real again.

Editor: Street-side Poet