The Pale Altar of Midday Silence

I am a study in lemon-hued restraint, perched upon this weathered wooden spine like an offering left for the city’s forgotten gods. The air is thick with the scent of warm asphalt and distant rain—a heavy, humid shroud that clings to my skin, making every breath feel deliberate, almost ritualistic.
I watch them: two pigeons descending from a slate sky in perfect symmetry. They are wild things, raw and instinctual, yet their flight possesses an architectural precision that mirrors the ache in my chest. I have spent months building walls of glass and steel around my heart—a modern asceticism where love is measured by response times and digital echoes.
But as they circle me, I feel a sudden, violent surge of warmth beneath my ribs. It is not just the sun; it is the memory of your hands on my waist last Tuesday in that dimly lit hallway—fingers grazing skin with an intensity that threatened to tear through my composure like claws through silk.
I sit here now, exposed and quiet under a pale sky, waiting for you to find me. I want our reunion to be less than romantic; I want it to be primal. To have your breath hot against the crook of my neck while we remain perfectly still on this bench—two creatures caught between civil obedience and animal hunger.
The birds land with soft thuds near my feet, their iridescent throats shimmering like oil spills in sunlight. In this stillness, beneath the weight of a thousand city sounds, I am finally healing: not by forgetting the wildness within me, but by learning how to let it bloom under your gaze.

Editor: Leather & Lace