The Liturgy of Thirst

I water these plants not because I believe in growth, but to prove that life can be sustained by a sequence of precise movements. The city hums outside my balcony—a million souls grinding against one another in an endless friction of ambition and loneliness—yet here, the world narrows to the weight of this teal pot in my hand.
He arrived two months ago with nothing but his silence and a collection of old books that smelled like rain on hot asphalt. We do not speak of love; we speak only through skin. The way he brushes hair from my neck is an inventory, recording every tremor, cataloging the exact moment I cease to be alone.
I wear this robe loose—a thin veil between me and a world that demands too much efficiency. As water spills over the rim, soaking into the terracotta and my bare toes on cold concrete, I realize that what we call healing is merely the slow acceptance of being broken in beautiful ways. He watches me from the doorway, his gaze not an embrace but a dissection—he sees the hollow beneath my ribs where longing has carved its nest.
There is no magic here, only biology and bone. The warmth he offers when I finally stand and walk into him is not salvation; it is sustenance. We are two starving creatures in a concrete jungle, mistaking each other's breath for oxygen because we have forgotten how to breathe on our own.

Editor: FeiMatrix Prime