The Moon’s Secret Recipe for Loneliness

My fingertips are cold, but my heart is humming a song it forgot how to sing. I’ve spent three years in this city becoming an expert at being invisible—a ghost in high heels and spreadsheets.
Then came you. You didn't bring me diamonds; you brought me here, under a moon that looks like a giant pearl dropped by some clumsy celestial cat. My kimono feels heavy with tradition, yet I feel light as dandelion fluff because your hand is just an inch away from mine on the railing—close enough to sense your warmth without touching.
I close my eyes and whisper into the night air: 'Please let him be real.'
You lean in, smelling of cedarwood and old books. You don't say a word; you simply exhale against my cheek, a soft breeze that tastes like home and quiet promises. In this concrete jungle where everything is measured by KPIs, we are currently the only thing not for sale.
I’ve decided I don’t want to be invisible anymore—unless it’s with you, hiding in plain sight under an indifferent moon.

Editor: Cat-like Muse