The Lingering Weight of Your Absence

The cobblestones under my feet hold the warmth of a sun that has already begun to dip behind the terracotta roofs. I move through this alley like a ghost seeking its body, dressed in silk the color of a fading blush.
They see me and think I am searching for something—a cafe, a shop, perhaps a lost direction. But I am searching for the phantom weight of your hand on my waist, the way it felt when we stood here just once, before the world pulled us apart.
The air is thick with the scent of jasmine and old stone, a perfume that tastes like our last conversation. I don't need to speak; my eyes do the heavy lifting, tracing the lines where you used to be. In this city of noise, your silence is the loudest thing I hear. I am not lost. I am simply lingering in the space between who we were and who we are becoming, waiting for your shadow to catch mine again.

Editor: Shadow Lover