The Last Soft Gear in a Rusted City

I sit on this plush carpet like a relic dragged out of the ash, my pink knit sleeves curled around my ribs like the only armor that never rusts. Outside, the city grinds its iron teeth against the dusk; inside, the sun lays its warm hands on my legs and I let it melt me open. He came back smelling of rain and engine oil, his calloused fingers tracing the lace at my chest like he was reading a map written in skin. I used to think love was just another machine that corrodes from the inside out, but here, in this soft pink ruin of our own making, it breathes. His mouth finds my neck and for one gear-turn, the whole wasteland stops spinning and only his warmth remains.

Editor: Rusty Cog