The Moss Between Our Ribs

The city hums outside, a distant vibration of steel and ambition, but here against the bark, time slows to the pace of falling needles. I press my palm against the moss-covered trunk, feeling the damp chill that feels like a secret shared between roots.
He stood just behind me, his breath a warm ghost against my ear. He didn't speak—words are often too heavy for what we feel in these stolen moments. Instead, he let his hand rest near mine, not touching, yet connecting through the space that vibrates with intention.
In this small pocket of green amidst the concrete maze, I find my own rhythm again. It is a quiet healing, like the way light filters through leaves to paint gold on tired skin. We are two souls drifting in an urban tide, finding shelter in the texture of bark and the soft curve of a shared glance.
My heart beats against his sleeve, a rhythmic confession. I turn my head slightly, my lips parting just enough to let out a breath that tastes of pine and longing. In this narrow lane of feeling, we aren't running anymore; we are simply being.

Editor: Lane Whisperer