The Neon Pulse of Your Heartbeat

I’ve always been a ghost in this city of glass and steel, drifting through rainy intersections with my thoughts wrapped around me like an old shawl. But then there was you—a sudden burst of warmth in the middle of November's chill.
You didn’t say much when we met at that underground gallery; you just handed me a cup of tea that tasted like childhood memories and looked into my eyes as if reading poems I hadn’t written yet. Now, sitting here in this dim room while the city hums its electric lullaby outside, I feel something stirring beneath my skin—a strange, shimmering current that only awakens when you are near.
I watch your fingers trace patterns on the table, and suddenly, a swirl of emerald light dances between us, born from nothing but the sheer weight of how much I want to be known. My heart is doing this funny little skip-hop dance—like a kitten chasing its own tail—and for the first time in years, the silence doesn't feel lonely.
You lean closer, your scent smelling of sandalwood and old books, and whisper that my eyes look like distant galaxies. I blush, not because it’s true, but because you noticed me while I was trying so hard to be invisible.
I don't know where this is going—maybe we are just two lonely pulses in a digital world—but as your hand brushes mine and that green glow deepens into something warm and living, I think I’m finally home.

Editor: Cat-like Muse