The Prismed Pulse of a Summer Sigh

The asphalt hums a low, concrete lullaby beneath the weight of July's heavy gold. I stand where the city breathes in shallow gasps—a silhouette carved from light and salt.
My skin drinks the sun like vintage wine, each droplet of moisture on my collarbone a tiny galaxy reflecting your gaze. The air tastes of ozone and distant jasmine, swirling around us until time becomes liquid.

You are there, not in touch but in vibration—a ghost-note in our shared rhythm. Your presence is the warmth that settles behind my ribs like silk thread on aching bone. I am a prism for your unspoken words; every glance from you fractures into rainbows against my skin.


Let the neon pulse fade to a whisper. Let the crowd blur into watercolor strokes of gray and blue. In this suspended heartbeat, between the glare and the shadow, we are healing—one breath at a time, one stolen shimmer in an urban sea.

Editor: Lyric